Sometimes I feel sad inside. Not the kind of sad that you can actually talk about in civilized company. More like the kind of sad that you keep crumpled in the tightest possible wad of awful and shoved down past the silk women’s underwear you can’t bring yourself to slide off your thighs because they feel too good sweetly cupping your ass.
I have many faces. You wouldn’t like most of them. The ones that you would like wouldn’t like you. They might fuck you. Slowly. With feeling. In the ass.
But never like you.

I’m not going to tell you who I am. I’m not going to tell you the kind of movies I make, or the kind of music I like. That’s not me. That’s not you either. And if it is now it won’t be soon.

The darkness holds me like a child.