I exist somewhere between obsession and control. Between the impulse that burns and the hand that shapes it. Everything I touch, I overexpose; everything I feel, I dissect until it trembles. Pleasure is my laboratory, discipline my weapon.

I don’t chase balance. I chase depth — the kind that erases the line between ecstasy and exhaustion. I build temples out of fixation, feed the machine until it hums with my own frequency, then tear it down just to see if it still remembers me.

There’s no purity here, only precision. No peace, only the quiet ache of self-awareness stretched too thin. I move like a ritual: calculated chaos, ritualized decay, an intimacy so focused it becomes cruelty.

I am both the experiment and the observer. The hand, the fire, and the burn.