This morning as I lay in a bed with eyes half-opened, and through a thin veil of curtain languidly watching the light from outside dispersed into a hundred little geometries through the frosted window; as I cautiously pulled the thick sheets over my naked torso, taking care not to interrupt the peaceful snores beside me; and slowing my breathing to a tedium—I thought of the baseness which I allowed myself after months of self-restraint, all because I wanted to know what it feels again as how you must have felt, knowing that you are craved, wanted, capable of stirring desire in others, capable of an easy tryst like a cheap prostitute. But one thing differentiates the two of us: I am certain of my immorality, and I can accept it. Which is why I decided, on my way home, how important it is to write about it, even if it is nothing glorious. And he told me that I'm different; and I agree I'm different—I understand the world, I do not grasp. He said he could see me as a father. I agree too. But that road is no longer open to me. I have gone to Hell.
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