GOTHiC AUDiTiON

a tale of divine carnality

WRiTER’S NOTE

I was unable to finish this story for many months. Capturing Medusa is no easy feat. Recently, I met Diotima and she unfroze me. The words could not stop flowing out.

PROLOGUE WARNiNG

This is a ghost story.

A love story.

A thriller.

It is an exorcism.

A cleansing.

A confession.

It is a man drawing the line for himself, so that all future ███████████████████████████████████████████████████. Which we all know really means—to make sense of the versions of myself I have been outrunning.

This summer was the end of the beginning. I came alive as a fugitive. It was the only way to murder what I had to. I was ████████████████████. I was spending money like I couldn’t stand it, ███████████████that cost me my sanity.

It is not that I have not loved, ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████...but I have been the rawest. The kind that makes all other times feel like the cover band. The type that ████████████████████.

The issue is that that I have often hurt ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████. I arrive, I awaken ████████ , I give a taste of ████████ but I ████████████████████.

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████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████?

It is only words that have saved me. Reading—my escape hatch, ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ No one can touch me. I cannot see myself. I cannot find myself. It is a sweet, sweet relief.

And of course—writing. Releasing all my electricity into ████████████████████████████. When you picture me writing, picture a man carving ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████. I am violently etching ██████████████████████████████ with the hopes that it will stop me from bursting open.

Most of the people in my life have been drawn to me for my words and my worlds. ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████. I yearn, they yearn.

But being a writer means people bring you their words the way they bring a doctor their pain. Asking you to interpret. To dance. To spar. To soothe. To help them find the answers. To say what they cannot say.

I exhaust.

I long for connections that do not demand meaning or introspection. That do not ask me to carry the weight of someone’s reflection.

It is like they have gone their whole lives blind, and they want to rip the eyes out of my head and into their own. So they may finally witness.

They also try to define you. Perhaps the spotlight I put on them is too much at times. They grab for it and shine it right in my face. How does that feel? ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████I honor you without control. Without possession. An Orphic love. Can you please do the same for me?

My writing does not describe, it █████. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████.

Or so I thought. Until lately, my words began attracting ██████████████████████████████.That █████ me. That shattered the house of illusions I had constructed.

And I followed their guidance…deeper and deeper into my heart. To the truth.

There he was. The little boy. Waiting to be picked up and held. To be told that there was nothing wrong with how much he felt. But to also be taught that just because he loved the world so deeply did not mean he had to grasp for every bit of beauty and hold on to it with such ferocity. Affection without grounding scorches. He desires so badly to be one with the flame, with the source.

There, there.

██████████████████████████████ ████ ██████████████████████████████ ████ ██████████████████████████████ ████

██████████████████████████████ That a tender heart needs an iron frame. That only he can make sense of himself, and bloodletting through his connections is no way to █████████

The problem with being good with words, with getting everything you decree—is you never stop to ask yourself what you actually want. You become addicted to the forward motion, the spell making, the manifestation.

The first 27 years of my life, my words led to me ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

They’ve led me far, far away from myself. No more. ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

Enough about me.

The stage is set. The writer has cleared his altar. I have come to you on my knees, with my chin held high, asking ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

Now we speak of an enchanting woman. I know not what I mean to her. But in reading this, you will know what she means to me. A mythic mirror.

How in the theater of a weekend in Belgium, it was she that had the courage to claw the mask off my face. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

THE STORY

She liked the way I wrote about her home. Told me exactly which piece it was that hooked her.

It was the final piece I wrote for my ex.

I invited her to be my Bonnie. But I was already gone.

This was the piece:

EVERYTiME I ask myself why?

I come back to you.

Remember when I asked you to pack for our Mediterranean summer? We were hitting Málaga for a little Bonnie and Clyde moment. Right under the sun. On the beach. In the sand. With only the ocean as our witness.

All I needed to start over was you. I could ride any wave so long as it had space for two. I asked you if you wanted to be an outlaw with me.

You took off your angel wings and said:

“Yes, baby.”

Oh what a saint you are for me! You make miracles happen (you and your lips and your hips). Oh what a saint you were for me! You made miracles happen (you and your light and your poetry.)

And before we took off I asked you...what were we escaping from? What were we chasing?

I wrote you a note on the steel fridge with the little word magnets:

Why picture the blue water over there? We can play here! The light shines on us wherever we go.

But every night I had dreams of the salty air, and the skewered fish. The vermouth and the late night gin. The sun bleached stone and the heat that lingered long after dark. I wanted to take our scenes international. To perform our romance abroad. By the water—where we love it most.

Because I knew then: wherever we could be you and me, I would feel free.

I was ready to sweat it out with you. To bleed it out with you. To take the leap of faith. To make our vows on the run. Just two stupid fugitives in love. With a little beach town to call home for our heavy hearts.

NOONE can catch us. SPAiN’S MOST WANTED. Let’s spend the days playing stick up. And blow our take every night as we dance it all away.

That was how she found me. On this site you are now reading this on.

We started texting, sending voice notes. Each one longer than the last, as if our voices were learning to linger with each other.

She was making videos too. With that curly hair of hers. Shoulder length, volume that framed her DOLL FACE. Looking like a rockstar’s girlfriend, straight out of a magazine from the 70s. Especially when she wore her headbands.

Everything about her felt lived in. Authentic, untreated. Her aesthetic had patina. It was earned.

A sort of style that drew me in because it was oh so different to the American girls I was familiar with.

She was intellectual FELiNiTY meets European casual. European effortless, which is really American effort. Never trendy. Intentionality without flash. Having a relationship with the pieces in her closet was sacred to her.

Lots of rich jewel tones and earthy hues. Her palette complemented her light complexion. Vintage designer in abundance. Ribbed knit tops, simple skirts, tailored trousers. Classic, functional, but still sensual. Hands that traced over seams, caressing them like one would a lover’s hair.

She was prouder of the hunt than the pieces themselves. Would show me her Vinted for you page and talk away about why she wanted this or that. She knew her history. A design student, a stylist, a fashion writer.

She would also lecture me on why she didn’t buy most things she wanted. If she couldn’t picture her daughter wearing it decades from now...then what was the point? She didn’t want fads. She wanted eternal. And she thought the only way to find eternal, was to slow down and honor your essence. Match the fabrics and cuts and colors to your iNNER WORLD.

Her jewelry? Minimal but meaningful. Could tell you exactly how old she was when her mothers passed it on to her. How she felt when she thrifted this or that. What she was going through in life when it was gifted to her.

An OLD SOUL GRAViTY. All her choices were for truth—her truth—to shine. Not for spectacle. Her face seemed like it was perpetually in dialogue with a thought she hadn’t yet shared. I wanted her to share.

We were both Catholics, headed in opposite directions. Her a natural born one, trying to shake the shame and guilt that came with being a CATHOLiC GiRL. Me? Jesus came into my life in my early 20s, and I surrendered fully to him only a couple years before. God was still like a new stuffed animal to me. I wanted him all to myself, to love me, to listen to me. She told me what she prayed for, and it was a long list of people other than herself.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Like I always did. I felt it though. I knew she did too.

There was the DUALiTY I loved. Like me—a listener, shy, romantic. But also confident, ambitious, daring. Couldn’t stop talking once we felt understood.

We started talking on the Fourth of July. This of course meant nothing to her. Spanish by birth but homesick by way of Belgium.

I was American by birth and homesick by way of my life crumbling around me. I built the cathedral of my 20s, and detonated it myself. I felt naked. Free.

As our voice notes got longer and longer, as our tans got darker and darker, as our thoughts intertwined, I found myself falling for the first time since the breakup. It was nice that there was distance. It forced me to slow down. And so the summer deepened.

She admired the ivy that covered the stone walls guiding her walk to work. Told me that we could learn from the tempo of nature.

I loved volcanos and hurricanes. They had much to teach us too.

She adored sea turtles. Elegant, ancient, deliberate. They travel oceans but return home to their birthplace. An existence of ache, of softness encased in strength. Dignified in their slowness, carrying history in their bones. Pilgrims in their own skin—vulnerable but unbothered.

I loved jaguars. Velvet menace. Sleek and shadowed, all silence until eruption. Jungle born, moon fed power. An unsettling beauty—the type that ambushes you, unsettles you, awakens you. An existence of rhythm, of blood, of risk. And hard earned rest.

I thought I could teach her how to leap, how to change the air with your very presence. She thought that for a man obsessed with velocity, she could be my DEVOTiONAL pause.

I studied a selfie she sent—full brows, full lips, with an expression that made her look thoughtful, slightly melancholic. There was already a current inside me flowing for her—I didn’t need to feed it. I needed to learn more about what that observant face was feeling inside. How she earned that radiant beauty. The kind that flows from within.

I couldn’t get enough of her intellect, her interests, her passion. I replayed her voice notes over and over: listening to her discourse on the state of fashion journalism, on the newest brands she had discovered, on the marketing campaigns she thought were revolutionary. An obsession for the overlooked brands, the upstarts, the fearless auteurs that were taking on the BiG HOUSES.

Then she switched over to telling me about her day, but not in the rote play by play sense. She would chart the emotional climate, the texture of the events, the places, the people that orbited her. Her updates read like moodboards. She didn’t just recount her day, she curated it like a DiARiST WiTH TASTE. Her narration had an invigorating architecture—poetic, instinctive, softly surreal. I got drunk on her check-ins.

Then she waxed on about how she was infatuated by the Carolina Herrera dress worn in How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days. Or sent me articles from her collection of old L’Officiel copies and trace today’s celebrity fashion choices to their origin. Like me, she loved to find depth in pop culture.

And of course, the books. That was another thing that felt fated. I had just finished reading Just Kids by Patti Smith. She had too.

This is where I felt most open. On and on, I told her about my favorite books, my own novel I was working on. I invited her into these fictional worlds, the ones that have been my escape since childhood. When my mother would take me to all the bookstores around the city, and I would sit leaning against her, the hours flying as she’d stroke my hair and I’d be far far away.

I invited her in, like a PLAYMATE.

Come. Look at what I find stimulating, what I find enchanting, what I love, what I’m scared of, what I crave. Never directly. Only through the SYMBOLS and MiRRORS of LiTERATURE.

Do you like?

I knew things were really headed somewhere when the resistance began.

She asked me about my breakup. There was a video I had posted. About this song I loved. How I would sing the chorus at the top of my lungs whenever it came on. Cris MJ, the trickster king, the champagne playboy, over a dark synthy reggaeton beat.

TE LO HAGO RICO PA QUE SIEMPRE ME RECUERDE

POR SI MAÑANA ME PIERDE

And my ex would always wonder what it meant. So one day I translated it to her.

I GIVE IT TO YOU GOOD SO YOU CAN ALWAYS REMEMBER ME

IN CASE YOU LOSE ME TOMORROW

Naturally, this upset my ex. I swore to her there was no conscious choice in this, I simply liked his delivery. The content was secondary.

This only made things worse. The SUBCONSCiOUS is where the TRUTH LiVES.

So I told her I would tell her more over a video call. We had been trying to pin down a date, but I was deep in birth month (half of my family is a July baby) celebrating with the kin, and she had a schedule that was all over the place.

Finally though, she made the time. It was the APEX of SUMMER.

9:30pm and the sun was only then setting. I took the call at the viewpoint up the hill from my parent’s new home. Sat with my feet hanging over the edge of the crumbling wall. Looking out at the peninsula across the way, the many sailing boats moored to the dock.

I felt my breathing get sharper as I waited for her to ring me. All around, the village hummed with townspeople meeting friends outside for dinner, clanking Cruzcampo bottles, the smell of fried eggplant and sardines wafting.

I don’t remember much about the first call. It was intoxicating. I do remember her showing me her new slouch suede Fendi boots. And a vintage edition of Crime and Punishment. My favorite.

It was that book that made me put the bullet in the chamber. I told her I needed to see her. She giggled but demurred. Made me jump through some more conversational hoops, and when I passed—she said okay, I’ll believe it when I see you.

I skipped my way down the hill and back to my parent’s place. Rushed to my bedroom because my grin was GiViNG iT ALL AWAY. And the crush was too real now to talk about.

The next day neither one of us wanted to send the first message. Too much to say. Cupid had loaded a big arrow on the bow, and whoever blinked first was going to get it straight to the heart. Oh well.

It was such a relief that she loved her family as much as I did. Her an ELDEST DAUGHTER, me the BABY BOY. I had been in a pattern of dating women with...complex childhoods, and I found myself shrinking so as not to activate their trauma. But the truth was, I wanted to talk about my family all day. And with her, I could. She had just as tight knit of a cocoon. The way she talked about her own mother made me view mine with even larger HEART EYES. The appreciation for their age, how they grew more beautiful with every passing year. Like an oak tree.

Then there was the AMBiTiON. Her, knowing she was destined to run her own fashion magazine, the next generation Vogue. Me, having just cut off the chase to be the next Steve Jobs, realizing I was meant to be the highest me. A †$UPER$TAR WRiTER†. The vocation I dreamt of as a child, before we even thought about careers or jobs. But I had been scared of the electricity of living like an artist, and had abstracted it away to treating my company like a canvas.

We spoke endlessly in AFFiRMiNG language. Pushed one another by editing each other’s writing, learned from one another’s video making.

Now my mood was dictated by her messages. I was insatiable. I wanted her to send pictures of her every trinket. To cut me a piece of every slice of her life. She started a pattern of sending me videos of her walking home from work. GLiDiNG, unhurried, head high, gaze soft.

There had been a pair of houndstooth Bottega flats she impulse bought. Rare for her but the deal was too good to pass up and she could see the infinite outfit permutations that they could unlock. Plus she could picture her daughter slipping them on. When they came she sent me a video of her fingers gently running over the houndstooth. She explained that the shoes felt like the place she was in in her life. I didn’t understand, but I wanted to.

I studied the pictures she would send me of her room like a Rorschach, trying to interpret how she was feeling. Were there fresh tulips in her vase by the window? Why was her DKNY bag sitting on top of the bookcase, instead of the little trunk filled with family photos like it normally was? Was that a new candle in the little nook by her bed? How was she liking that new journal she got, the one that she tucked under the covers and I could spot as a lump?

She loved to talk about herself. I soaked it all up, like a man parched for the GLAMOUR MAGiC that is women’s self love. Her curly hair was an infinite topic. Her lips. She sent pics cropped from the lips down. I traced her figure, drank it in. Especially when she was in that navy skirt with the side slit. The Dolce one that her mom had blessed her with.

That woke me up again. I knew it was time to step towards the dream. See how real it was.

I accompanied my sister to a tattoo appointment on her birthday, near the end of July. I got my first piece done, a small GOTHiC CROSS on the neck. Right where the big vein pulses. As my sister laid down for her collarbone moon and stars, I planned my voyage.

I would take my time. Madrid, Barcelona, Paris. Then Belgium. And Belgium only for a few days before boomeranging back. A dread rippled through me. A fear of getting stuck. Like she did.

I called her out of the blue that night, to let her know. She quickly declined the call. A couple hours later she called me, out late at night on the streets. She had been out at dinner with her friends. And she lived with her aunt, a LiGHT SLEEPER.

I didn’t get the reaction I expected when I told her my plans.

Well, I did. For an instant. Her eyes lit up—I swear I saw her long eyelashes dance. But then a lowering of the volume. She asked me if I was just coming for her. I told her the Belgium leg was for her, but the rest of the trip was for me. My E,P,L. I received an eye roll.

She wanted exact dates. I didn’t have them. I wanted to treat my trip like an improvisation. Let my heart tell me when it was time to leave. She insisted I give her exact dates. My jaw tightened as I rubbed the back of my neck. I told her I would once I knew them. She said she had work and if I didn’t tell her dates, I wouldn’t be able to see her much because she wouldn’t be able to take off last minute.

Okay.

I tossed all night. Hot and wired, haunted by her voice going cold.

The next day she swung back. Apologized for her reaction the night before, said it had been a long day at the end of a long week. But she was overjoyed. I heard it in her voice. And to really make up, she let me further in. Showed me an Art Deco vanity she had bought in Paris for her mother’s birthday. Something she had yet to show anyone. I purred with approval.

48 hours later I was on the train to the capital. The churning in my stomach growing with every stop. Every tree that flew past the window, every village that we skated by, every teary eyed wave from the platform. I was pulsing. Throbbing.

She wasn’t the FiRST after the LAST.

There had been the curvy flight attendant from Porto (much older than me). I met her on a night out. Stunning, flirty, flighty. No intention of settling down. She swore I was gay even as we made out, until well... she swore I was a man who made no sense. I would see her again months later in New York.

Then there was the ethereal model, half Cape Verdean (much younger than me). I met on the beach in Cascais. Bubbly, shy, idealistic. The type of beauty that isolates. Made her ruminate as to why no one had pursued her. We didn’t last because I knew I was in no position to be her first love. Not during my outlaw summer. She called a month later asking for a second chance.

But they offered little iNTELLECTUAL iNTiMACY. Which is the real key to my being. I am man, and my blood is red—but it truly ignites when the neurons are stroked the right way. And I was hot, hot, hot. Not just cause Barcelona was sweltering.

It was my first night in Paris when I started to feel like I was drowning. I felt like I was being pulled to her with a DEVASTATiNG MAGNETiSM. Each mile closer made me buzz. I found myself constantly tapping my foot and startling at every sight of curly hair.

I kept her updated with photos of all my travels. The Sagrada and its crowds, my tapas and wine in Madrid, the Rodin sculptures in Paris. Everywhere I saw a postcard I bought one as a form of survival. Immediately, I tried to let out some of my electricity with some writing to her. It would work. Temporarily.

Vessel vs. voltage. The EXiSTENTiAL BATTLE of my life.

In each postcard I signed my name with more and more. First name, then first and middle, the first, middle and last. Becoming realer as I got closer. All the while making sure I wasn’t handing border guards my real passport.

Finally, I stopped dragging my feet. Told her I would leave Paris in 72. Belgium next. Her next.

Her, her, her.

The day before I was due to leave I sat eating in a corner bistro, scrawling away in my notebook. A pro-Palestine rally had shut down the streets around me, and the thunder of HOLY DiSOBEDiENCE swelled the avenue. I caught the eyes of many of the lion-hearted youth and felt a pull. Maybe my eros was never romantic at all, but a restless force meant to be consecrated to díkē.

I was one step away from filling my arms with my compulsion, my letters. Tattooing the restlessness. I tried to ground myself but it fell short.

I thought maybe the Australian girl I kept running into at the same bar was the answer. She knew all about the girl I was heading to see. Said it caught her by surprise that I had kissed her. Told me this when we were back in her room, under her sheets. But I couldn’t, so I didn’t. My flame was already CHAiNED.

As the bus pulled into town, something came over me. The calm washed over.

I had arrived. With myself.

She was facing away when I first saw her. Sitting below a lion statue, staring out at the river. It was the final weekend of the town’s raucous yearly festival, the streets overrun with drunk tourists from all over Europe. She had picked a side street to meet up at.

Her curly hair was blowing in the wind. Before I called out to her I drank it all in. I felt the danger. She didn’t try to be seen. She was already STYLED for MEMORY, not the MOMENT. I felt the danger.

When our eyes finally met, a heavy silence passed between us. Smiles suppressed but breaking through. I hugged her. Melted into her violet & cedar scent. She was wearing the white and black polka dot skirt I told her I liked, and a backless black top I had never seen before. A white headband she kept adjusting.

She planned for us visit a museum exhibit to break the live ice. She teased me for being nervous, quiet. I was quiet, but I was not nervous. I was possessed. Entranced. Soaking it in. I wanted her to simply be and exist near me so I could enjoy. Writers are witnesses first and foremost. And if we observe closely enough, if God shines down on us—we reach the holy grail, and we are blinded by the impossible: seeing someone as they are when NO ONE is WATCHiNG.

We walked to the museum, her teasing me for how fast I walked. She thought it very New York of me. I was captivated by the town itself. For some reason I felt invisible here. Like I had a cloak on. Untouchable.

My neck was on a swivel, taking in the canals that snaked through, the water reflecting the gabled houses. The ivy she had previewed, climbing medieval walls. Warm stone. Uneven cobblestone. The earthy beer smell mixing in with the damp river air. We crossed a crumbling brick bridge and I took a mental picture of her against the faint golden haze of the sky.

The exhibit was called ARTiFACTS WiTH MEANiNG. I don’t remember the items, only her leaning over each glass box and reminding me how she saw the world. Moods, impressions, atmospheres, sensations. Not like me. Characters, motives, consequences, reversals.

In that moment, I had a feeling one of us was going to feel pain.

We spent the rest of the day losing ourselves to the collective DiONYSiAN energy. Wandering between stages, enduring strained covers, and stumbling in and out of bars, shouting conversations with red-faced strangers.

The first real touch was when I led her through the crowd, reaching back for her to hold my hand. We finally made it to a patio by the river, and drank cherry beers as we stared at each other with smiling eyes.

I rubbed the stickers on the back of her phone—a boutique hotel crest, a pressed flower sealed under clear vinyl, a care label graphic. She reached for my phone and swiped to the camera, to take a selfie of us.

Neither one of us wanted the night to end. It was almost 1AM and we sat on a bench under the cantilevered roof of the new library. The town was entirely Gothic, except for this one modern building. On the river.

We looked out at the water and talked about everything other than what was burning our insides. Our voices lowered. Eyes darting, lip to lip. The party was still going strong, just far enough to be glitter instead of blare.

She asked me how my tattoo was healing. This obliged us to turn toward one another. Her eyes lingered on the ink. My heartbeat stopped as I answered.

She looked up at me and I trailed off.

The kisses came dense, deliberate.

They began slowly, almost CEREMONiALLY, with a velvet warmth. Our breathing forgot its discipline and they deepened. She introduced her tongue and everything followed. The breath softened again, the mouths slowed, and the river went still. We were swimming together, right on that bench.

We pulled away and our eyes were bowed.

Our laughing started and rang out. A group of teenagers riding by on bicycles snickered along with us.

I looked at the sculpture behind her. A circle of people, maybe twenty foot tall, all leaning into to each other, forming a teepee like structure so their faces were obscured. It was the best sculpture I had ever seen.

We took the side streets to my hotel. I had something to give her.

My copy of Giovanni’s Room. I knew she liked Paris, and I knew she liked love—the thorny kind, the self-revealing kind, the kind you surrender to—so I gave it to her.

She waited outside. When I handed it to her, we kissed and kissed and kissed, me pushing her up against the frame of the door. Around us, SHADOWS MiLLED about, hooting and hollering, but we didn’t hear them. She told me to stop, or else she was going to go upstairs with me. I kissed her at the hollow of her neck. She exhaled, softly. I then gave her a kiss on the forehead and said I would take her home.

We took the side streets. What should have been a ten minute walk to her aunt’s house stretched into half an hour, interrupted by our need to stop and return to one another. We kept punctuating with pauses we never explained. A few blocks from her door, she made me say goodnight.

I floated home, like a cartoon cat following the scent of a freshly baked pie.

The next day, I rose late and stumbled to look in the mirror. I had to confirm that there were not two men staring back at me.

One half wanted to get the next train out of town. The other wanted to march over to her house and become one.

I gripped the sides of the sink and closed my eyes.

Why? Why did I feel like this? Why was I like this?

The last time I felt like that was with my ex, on the third date. We kissed that night, and then spent the entire weekend together—and after a couple weeks, almost everyday thereafter.

I loved my passion, but my FULL THROTTLE nature was too much for me at times. I had to learn how to discern. How to sit with the emotions, instead of rushing to consummate them. Like a child I grasped tightly at what I loved, and threw it to the side just as quickly once it hurt me or bored me.

I laid on my bed and did some breathing exercises. I turned myself to God, like a SUNFLOWER. I was not feeling any sort of shame, I was just trying to actively contain my desire. Not to suppress it, but to sit with it, let it know I saw it, I felt it, I loved it, but it didn’t control me. I fell back asleep.

Then I awoke as one.

We met up in a park, where a children’s carnival was being inflated. I stared at the giant alligator bounce house coming to life, as she nuzzled into me.

I kept directing her attention to the alligator, to the little kids that climbed all over it. She placated me, but wanted to continue the energy from the night before. I was not ready to play that again. After a couple of stiff kisses, she asked me what was wrong.

I told her I was so far away from home, from myself. That being here with her, and connecting so fast, only reminded me how adrift I was. It was not that she was making me feel bad, it was that her presence made me feel so good I already dreaded the DiSCONNECTiON. I knew it was all fleeting, and I wanted nothing more than stable ground.

She hugged me and I began to cry.

Then I let loose. Turned the dialogue to monologue.

I talked about the alligator and how badly I wanted to capture it. She asked what I meant by that. I told her to look, to really look at the children. Look at how happy the alligator made them. But how does the alligator feel? And where does he go when his day is done? And where does he sleep? And does he have a family? Or does he just do his job and deflate?

She smiled and wiped away my tears.

I told her it was so much. Everything inside of me, everything I felt and wanted to witness, preserve and honor. Reflect back to the world.

Look around, I said. Look at all the beauty around. Look at how big even the smallest things are. Look at how much it means. Just stop and look and feel and I promise you, you’ll realize how divine it all is. How beautiful we all are. There was an iMMENSiTY around me, and an iMMENSiTY inside of me, and I was collapsing with the ENORMiTY of my duty, my responsibility, my calling.

She had me take deep breaths, and finally, I wiped my own tears and faced her. I thanked her for letting me pour myself out. She said it was her that was grateful that I felt safe enough to split open in her company.

Then with a laugh and sidelong glance 1-2, she told me that I had just confirmed something she had always suspected.

She believed every woman was born with a myth inside. You just had to live long enough to name it, and to block out the noise so you could worship it without dilution or distortion. But men? She thought that we were empty. That was why it was us in history who tried to craft gods, name them, make them look like us and use them to control. And then tear them down when they no longer served us. Because we knew none of it was real—least of all, us.

She asked me why I came. My strength, my peace was now restored, as it always did after a good cry. I looked her in the eye and told her I was there for her. That I been DRiVEN WiLD by her over the last month and I was following my heart. She blushed and tucked her hair behind her ear.

But then I spoke from somewhere else, somewhere I had not ever reached into. A voice I’d heard but ignored.

Like the time I ruined a twelve year friendship. A woman I loved platonically. I was not attracted to her despite her being stormy and pretty. I knew she had a crush on me for some time, but chose to deflect it, to treat her like a younger sister. Then one night she admitted it all to me, when her husband was out of town.

I was deeply lonely at that point in my life. I had all the dreams of my early 20s coming true—the money, the attention, the power. With them, there was a sudden recognition of how hollow it all felt. AGAiNST my own iNTUiTiON, I crossed the line.

I pressed our bodies up against the living room window of my apartment, both of us looking out at Manhattan skyline lit and fractured by a thunderstorm. For an hour, something animal took over—urgent, consoling. In that shared heat, there was relief. Comfort. But after the flash spent itself, the friendship burned down. Forever.

So I sat in the park and told her that I was overwhelmingly attracted to her. But I was okay with doing nothing more. That our budding friendship meant more to me than any physical release. I just wanted her company and our conversations, and I would be content.

She said she doubted this—after all why would I travel all this way.

This was the first time her words cut me.

I didn’t know how to explain to her that I had been told that being with me was like dancing with a LiVE WiRE. That as hard as I tried to love openly and gently, I seemed to burn many of the women I was with. They would find it difficult to remain friends with me after it was all said and done. That the afterglow of my ballads was eternal. That my unions unspooled the way all great romances do—a lifelong he said, she said, but no more dialogue.

I wanted to avoid that fate. To save my electricity for a time when I was more stable, with someone who was fully aligned. Some who I could give this big heart to without any fear of them not being able to handle my TURBULENCE. I knew it was I who had to become comfortable with my intensity. To not flinch at my gravity, to stand securely with my hunger. To own my appetite without fearing a loss of my creative vitality.

I wanted, but in wanting, I feared hurting. And I knew I was capable of great hurt. I could tell this girl and I could be something big. A whole novel. But where we were in life, we were at most a short, sad story. Instead, I wanted to guarantee a HAPPY ENDiNG.

I lassoed these thoughts inside and simply told her that I meant what I said. I was here. Present. I just wanted us together, in the moment. Loose. Free. She raised an eyebrow but stroked my beard and said okay. I said merci, echoing back to her her favorite word.

We left the park to brunch. I looked back one last time at the alligator with his open mouth.

At brunch, she asked if she could see my notebook, the one I had been scrawling into alongside her. I hesitated, but then handed it over. My black pen had run out of ink, and she dug around in her bag for a blue replacement. Flipping to the back, she jotted something down, then passed it back to me for a reply. A RiFF.

There is no wind. There is no sun, yet. People keep walking in the chill. You are here but you are almost gone. I think of you as a dream. One I want to keep still but know I cannot.

In the stillness will come the light, when the dream evaporates. In the dark, in the rain, we are our own heat. We can sit in the glow of what we have created, through our honesty. It is ours and no one can take that from us. The rest can witness, but I care only that you see me and I see you.

I was dying for a nap.

We went back to my place. In the hallway she looked at me. Asked again if I was serious about not wanting to do anything more. I nodded silently.

She kissed me, tried to swirl my emotions. She asked me if that didn’t change my mind. I said I wanted it all, but only if that was what she truly wanted—and if she knew there was nothing more after this weekend. She looked up at me, and for the first time I saw a crack in HER ARMOR.

I opened the door.

Inside, she said okay. That we would do nothing more. I kissed her and said that was fine by me. She pouted and pushed my lips away with her finger.

I smiled and told her I was going to nap. That she was free to go. We could meet later. She said she’d wait on the couch, if I wouldn’t be too long. I told her it wouldn’t—just a quick shower, a half hour of sleep and I’d be fresh and ready for the evening. At my mention of a shower, she shook her head.

I know exactly what you’re doing.

I wasn’t doing anything. Truly. My mind was entirely on quelling the exhaustion that was enveloping me. My spirit had been through a ROLLERCOASTER the last week. My vitality was fighting against me and I was winning but at a great cost.

I shrugged, grabbed a pair of shorts, then slipped into the shower. I let the warm water pour over me and closed my eyes. The water loosened my back, opened my lungs. I pictured her by the balcony, waiting.

I stepped out and toweled off, still shirtless. She shook her head again.

Uh-uh. You can’t keep doing this.

Doing what?

You know.

My patience thinned. I laughed and climbed into bed.

Yea I do know. I’m going to sleep.

The low bass from outside carried me under.

When I woke, she was beside me, looking up at the ceiling. Still fully clothed, a fitted green sleeveless top, a long flowy white skirt. She asked if it was all right if she lay next to me while I slept. I looked at her chunky gold necklace, the sun smiling at me. I said yes, so long as she let me sleep.

She turned to me and nodded, lied straight to my face. I knew it then. I was going to lose.

In my haze I remember her hand on my chest. My face buried in her hair, and the smell of coconut. Her mouth at my neck. Her leg wrapping around my waist.

Are we really not going to do anything?

There was no more talking after that. I made sure of it.

I turned into her, then let my weight settle. Deliberate, controlled, delicate. Enough so that she was pinned, but could still breathe.

There were no more voices inside me anymore. Only impulse. Only breath, only nerves. Only the pursuit of our pleasure. It was time to show her the UNSAiD.

The rest of the evening was a mutual devouring. True compatibility reveals itself not in conversation, but in rhythm. Do your two bodies have the same grammar? Sometimes the best of emotional and intellectual connections can fall short, like a puzzle piece that’s got the tiniest little misshape.

This was not one of those times.

I owned her and she owned me.

There was no wrong move. She could not contain her sounds, and I could not contain my own. I could not stop. I did not stop. She was drunk off my iNSATiABiLiTY for her.

I told her what to do. I told her how much I liked it when she did what I told her what to do. She told me how much she liked me telling her what to do. She told how much she liked me liking her doing what she was told.

I told her how much I liked her face. Her hair. Her scent. Her skin. Her body. Her tone. Her everything. I fawned and fawned as I showed her over and over what I had been trying to restrain.

When time loosened and returned again, she asked how I was still there. I told her my limits were psychological, not physical. She did not believe me. That was a mistake.

I took breaks to to feel her squirm and arch and run her fingers through my hair.

There are three moments I remember most vividly.

In the first, she’s on all fours. I behind. Her voice breaking, reaching back for my hand. I ask her what’s wrong, but do not stop. I hold her hand as she turns back and tells me más. Her wish, my command.

In the second, her prone beneath me, my mouth at her ear. This is my favorite position and always has been. It is control, it is domination. But it is also protection, it is caring. I am taking my time, slow and not all the way, despite her plea for more. She asks me in her clearest voice yet, as if breaking the spell, why I resisted earlier. I move her hair to the side, so I can nuzzle into her neck, lick her ear. I tell her I wanted it to be right. That this was special to me. That I knew my value, and wanted her to work for it. So I knew she understood. She craned to kiss me, deliberately. I then picked up the pace and she let out a hiss—that she could see why. That I was addicting.

In the third, we are quiet. Our desire spent. Struggling to keep our eyes open, we lay in a puddle of sweat. She is curled into me and I am for the first time since I started talking to her, truly at peace. We kiss and it is better than every other time.

Then, as always in the wake of every aftermath, I WORSHiP. I showered her entire body with quick, grateful kisses. Each one a thank you. Offerings.

We showered together, laughing all the while. Later, outside in the dark cacophony, we shared a slice of pizza and some soda, then headed back to the room to watch some TV. She showed me all her favorite American media, the cultural fragments that shaped her growing up. I am surprised by how similar are childhoods are despite the ocean between us.

At midnight, she pouted again and told me she had to leave. I called her a car, kissed her as she stepped into it. I closed the door and waved, then headed upstairs to pass out.

I don’t remember much else of the town the next two days. We hardly saw the city. A few brief trips for food, for water, a little wandering for fresh air. Somewhere outside, around us, the city kept celebrating itself—music, movement, lights—but it never reached us. We spent the majority of the time consuming ourselves, like a snake eating its own tail. She always left late, but didn’t spend the night.

I felt ViCTORiOUS. She was a woman who embodied sophistication through restraint. But I flipped her intentional consumption, her careful rationing. I overturned her austerity.

We grew closer and closer. The more the desire was spent, the more walls came down. The past revealed. Hopes of the future as well.

She kept telling me how much she liked my duality. That I was assertive, but was also more tender than any man she had ever met. So sweet and so bad. So forceful and so soft.

I had a flashback to my mother telling me I was the gentlest child ever—but also the cruelest. It made my chest tense.

On my final full day there we resolved to do a little bit of exploring. The giant library where our fingers fluttered across spines and our book explanations uncovered more of our inner worlds.

Her favorite burger spot. Here we discovered a deeper POLARiTY.

Across the street we spotted a homeless man, agitated as he set up an art installation. He had on faded green headphones. Scratched up. Navy sunglasses, an orange glove on one hand, and short sleeve shirt with flames on it. He was barefoot, wearing flare jeans covered with paint. He leaned his canvases against a wall, and placed a large Belgian flag umbrella over them. He was tall and tan with jerky movements. His art was incredibly disturbing. I was mesmerized. She was deeply unsettled and asked us to change seats so we did not face him. I did not want to do this, but she pleaded until I finally gave in. After our meal I was dying to talk to the man, to learn more about him and his art. She had terror in her eyes and pulled me away. I sulked, lamenting that I was not able to learn from this DAMAGED SOUL.

In the thrift stores she played stylist with me. Told me what flatters me, what colors would look good, what style inspo to draw from. I liked mid 2000s Eurotrash/footballer, like Ronaldo, Balotelli, Beckham. Gaudy, boyish, cocky. She told me my intuition is good, but I would also do well to throw in some balance—a little old money, some linens.

She dressed me like a doll. Taught me how to express, truly express through fashion. She told me superstars are simple and distinctive in their style. REPETiTiON breeds RECOGNiTiON.

So I should stick to only ever wearing jeans. They are rugged, they are humble, but have been reworked over time into ELEGANCE and REBELLiON. That they are UNAPOLOGETiCALLY AMERiCAN, the way I am. They accept every version of you—holding form but giving way. The constraint would be good for me. Different washes, cuts but always jeans. Rituals ground people like me.

You’re a man of the people. You can wear Dior, but not without denim. Your magic is your contrast.

On the second floor of the last shop, I took off my shirt in the aisles to try on a jersey. There was no one around but she was mortified. I asked why? She said it was classless. I shrugged and looked in the mirror. I took it off to add to my bag. I turned around and guided her to the corner by the supply closet. I kissed her neck. She resisted but a hum escaped. I stopped as suddenly as I started and told her to compose herself, with a smile on my face. She slapped my arm and we went downstairs to pay.

Before we went back to our HiDEAWAY, I asked to go sit by the river. I wanted to delay the inevitable. We sat on a set of steps and watched the boats go by. The party was now over and the streets were filled with tired face and empty wallets. A dopamine shortage. I looked at the still water and began to cry. She rubbed my back. Waited for me to let out the first wave, and when I began sniffling, asked me what was wrong.

I told her that I was tired of running. That I wanted to just STAY STiLL. I felt so at home with her here, but I had to leave. I wished I could stay longer, I really wished I could. With her, with this version of me. That my entire life had felt like a relentless performance of greatness. That all the GOLDEN BOY love had come with golden boy expectations. And that each time I won, each time I reached the dream, it only piled on what people thought of me. I became dependent on all the forward motion. But I was done. I wanted to just be.

She told me it was only I who could slow myself down. That everyone else’s perception of me was their own problem. I was enough. I didn’t need to achieve anything to be adored. I explained that the paradox felt like I was so adored that it felt like I had no choice but to achieve. She shook her head and smiled. From the way I described the people in my life, she said it sounded like none of the love was conditional. People could tell I was destined for something—so they wanted to encourage my potential, but it didn’t mean I had to rush and force. I just had to unfold, to become, to respect my own internal rhythm. I hugged her and cried once more.

When we made it back to the hotel, I simply wanted to lay there with her. She understood me so well. At least enough to tell me what I needed to hear in the moment. We laid there and she told me how intoxicating my sense of ABUNDANCE was. That I moved with inevitability, that there was no doubt to my actions. An overflowing of self love and drive. Which is why it confused her that I was drowning in a state that felt so innate to me. I didn’t have it in me to expand, so I simply kissed her forehead. And sat in the sting of her reflecting back the very ANXiETY I had just professed to be plagued with.

She reached for me, with intent. I swallowed and told her I wanted to rest. That I wanted to stay exactly where we were. She smiled, certain I was playing a game. I gave her a thin smile back and told her really, I just wanted to relax with her. Watch a movie or something. She huffed and said okay. We put on some music videos but I could feel her vibrating.

I tried to reroute by addressing the energy abstractly. We were watching an old award show performance by a famous singer and I explained the reverence I have for women dancing. That there was something so inherently divine about a woman dancing that a man could never embody. It wasn’t just sexy, it was otherworldly. It was hypnotic. Like a glimpse into the ANCiENT, the pre language. She shuddered and turned, said that she could feel the heat emanating from me. She kissed me and I reciprocated, hoping we could keep it there. She kept telling me how much she wanted it, as she stroked it. She told me I had the prettiest words, but something even lovelier hidden beneath them. She liked the way I talked, but she liked the way I didn’t even more.

I don’t know why I did, but I gave in. It was still good—but it wasn’t where my heart was anymore.

That night she finally slept over. Before we went to bed, she asked me if I would consider doing long distance. I told her I had done that before and it was excruciating, even being in the same TiMEZONE. But I promised her that I wanted to be her friend, and leave the door open for us in the future, if our paths ever naturally crossed again. She turned away in the darkness and I followed suit, hugging her tight.

I knew I was not meant to attach my heart there. Simply to rest it and commune with a kindred soul.

I woke with a startle. She was shaking me. I turned and saw her big hair, her hysterical eyes. She was on the verge of tears.

You’re a demon.

What? My voice was hoarse.

I just had a dream. Here. In this room. And you turned into a demon. It was so real.

I thought she was joking. I chuckled then realized she was serious. She begged me to turn on the light. I reached across and did so. She reached out to touch my face. She said it had melted into something black, mouthless. And that my arms had been covered in BLOODSUCKiNG wounds.

I consoled her. She insisted her dream was real. That I had some dark, dark energy inhabiting me. I was at a loss for words. I had never been accused of this before.

She asked me if someone had sucked my blood before. Metaphorically. I said I supposed, that my last relationship was a bit like that. Then she calmed a bit. She explained that maybe the demon was not me, but was the dark energy attached to me. That I ought to cleanse myself.

I felt horrible that she saw me in this way. Her eyes were still panicked but her voice was at least steadier. We drifted back off to sleep. My brain treated the sleeping state as a laboratory, making myths to help me shake a darkness that was not mine. Or that was, and I did not wish to claim.

When we woke up, I still had a few hours before my train. I didn’t remember the night, not until I turned to kiss her and she shuddered. She apologized and told me she hadn’t slept at all. I stiffened at this. The overwhelming sweetness of the weekend giving way to a BiTTER AFTERTASTE.

We walked silently to our final meal, a waffle spot in a busy plaza. She looked around. After some averted gazes and throat clearing, she told me she was sorry.

She didn’t mean to scare me. Then she flipped, catching me further off guard. She said I had actually scared her all weekend. That it was part of why she found me irresistible. Her hair raising in my presence was alluring. My darkness an aphrodisiac.

My head was SPiNNiNG.

I sipped my lemon water and tried to reel it all in. She reached across and stroked my hand. We ate in silence. The food seemed to regulate us a bit.

We admired an Asian girl with bleached eyebrows, rocking a green fishnet beanie. She remarked that she loved people who dressed for themselves, especially in environments that suffocated you with their conformity.

We swatted a bee, took pictures of a ladybug.

She told me about her study abroad in Paris. Three girls in a flat that had a closet in the middle connecting to all their rooms. Sharing clothes all semester long. I told her as a child I obsessed about how all my stuffed animals needed to get equal love and attention. How I once cried to my mother that I had been neglecting a small monkey whose nose fell off and scared me. She told me how she once wrote her mom a long confession letter about all the little lies she told as a teenager.

On a napkin she drew me a wheel, broken up into eight slices. My name above it, she labeled the slices as:

Love

Passion

Artistry

Ego

Arrogance

Duality

Indifference

Emptiness

She told me I felt very empty. I said maybe I was. Maybe I was so full some people saw it as empty. Black is closer to white than all the other colors are. I talked about my book. At that point I was pitching it clumsily as:

It’s about sex and love and how young men separate the two because they’re scared or angry or both but all it takes is one good connection to make you feel whole.

She nodded along, then asked me if I felt lost. I dodged her question. Told her a lot of the photos I took on the way here were filled with birds in flight. But I craved a butterfly. Resting on a branch or a flower. Because this was the animal my grandmother told us she would come back as when she passed. She accepted my answer.

She took my notebook, this time without asking. Reached for the blue pen then put it to her lips as she thought. I watched her. Took a photo with my camera. Then she handed it to me. Told me she had WRiTER’S BLOCK. So I kicked it off and handed it back.

Orpheus and Medusa in the Gothic shadows of the Dionysian festival of a far, far away land. The rain, the cherry beer, the Formula racers. The speed is there. But so is the rest. Life is a big spiral upwards, but with some special people, it can feel like a straight line.

And in that line, tension, expectation, affection, embrace unfolds. Is it possible to keep walking this line together, blindly? Or will I have to accept it is a dream?

Just so long as you never think of it as a nightmare.

We signed it THE BEE and THE LADYBUG.

The final kiss as she saw me off was feverish. Two people moving in different directions, but only one of them happy. I looked out the window at the platform. Spouses, grandparents, toddlers, all blowing kisses at the newly departed.

She stood there with her arms crossed, her head titled. She remained that way as the train moved. It was restraint as posture, as principle. Her eyes never wavered from mine. She was making her emotions obey a line and a cut. Even her farewell had quiet taste.

In Paris, I threw away the blue pen she had given me. Too thick. I replaced it with a black fine point Japanese one.

In Bordeaux I bought her a postcard, planned on sending it when I got back.

Four days later, in San Sebastian she asked me if we could call. We had been texting, but with the tension of two people feeling like frayed strands. I called her after my surf lesson. Her tone was rehearsed, I could feel it.

She told me what we had done was a mistake. That she admired much in me, and enjoyed our time together, but I had no right to claim her. I began to speak up, as I had done no claiming. Quite the opposite.

She said my DESiRE was dangerous. That it was going to ruin me if I didn’t keep it in check. That she needed to protect herself and her path in life. I bit my tongue. I could tell this was a script for her to hear out loud, not for me. I thought about how we agreed that if I was a color, I was blue. But where I thought I was a baby blue, she saw me as midnight.

She ended her SOLiLOQUY. Asked me if I had any thoughts. I said I appreciated her honesty, and wished her the best. I was ready to hang up.

A Danish girl—someone I’d shared a drink with the night before—joined me on the patio. Her headphones were in, but I knew she was listening. I did not care.

Her tone shifted. She asked me if that was it. She asked me if I felt awakened at all.

I said sure, she felt like a nourishing connection. An important mirror. And I was going to take to heart her encouragement to slow down, to sit with myself, to cleanse. To work on the masculine CONTAiNER for all my range and relentlessness. That hopefully I had also inspired her—to chase her dreams with more conviction and momentum.

She then sounded very far away. She said what we did was a dream and I should remember it as such.

She said she shouldn’t have.

Shouldn’t have what? What? Shouldn’t have what?

Cheated.

She let out a long breath. It all clicked. Why the shadow flared with her eros. How I was responsible for her apparition.

Medusa forces truth. She is a DiViNE iNTERRUPTOR. Her erotic power is her curse.

She was now angry. She said I had no duality. That I was simply a SHAPESHiFTER. Carrying lots of heaviness.

I hung up. Rubbed my eyes until they were filled with stars.

That night I went out with the Danish girl, to a bar nearby. She probed about the conversation she overheard (just the tiniest snippet she claimed). I said it had been an EPHEMERAL weekend.

I was in the early innings of shedding my skin. Healing but struggling to fully ungrasp. I was still stumbling into the grooves of my old patterns.

She told me she had never met a man who spoke the way I did, as she leaned her knee against mine. I smiled. Thanked her. Told her I had to be up early. She said she would leave me with me. I told her it was fine—she should stay. Her friend was arriving any minute anyways.

I walked home alone. Disappeared into the crowd.

On the street, I put my headphones in. I pressed play on the song that my ex hated, the one drowning in REVERB.

It no longer sounded like a theme song.

Tengo algo rico pa’ que siempre me recuerde’
Por si mañana me pierde’
Tu cuerpo me provoca y no sé qué hacerle (eh)
Hace’ que yo vuelva a pecar
Yo conozco tu malda’, no te haga’ la inocente
Ella tiene su cuenta priva’ (ey)
Me gusta montarla encima (yeah, yeah)

Sabe que está pa’ mí aunque el tiempo pase (ah)
¿Cómo se mueve así? Me dice que le dé suave (ah)
Ella busca chingadera y le cumplo lo que quiera
Cuida’o, que nadie nos vea (ey) y los pantys me modela
Yo conozco, baby, tu maldad (tra)
También sé a lo que tú va’
Tú ere’ una diabla disfraza’
En mi cama te pongo a brincar, muah
Te pongo mis cadena’ y te rompo (jeje)
Ella cumple en agosto y me dice que estoy loco (yeah-yeah)
A eso’ gile’ yo los tosto (prr)
El party te lo exploto y en la Lambo yo te monto, ah
Tú no te da’ ni cuenta
Que yo te saco la vuelta, mami, yo soy tu Beretta (jaja)
Tu nalga el bicho me aprieta (ey)
Ven, tengamo’ una fiesta pa’ que quede’ contenta

Yo conozco, baby, tu vuelta
También sé a dónde tú va’
Tú ere’ una diabla difraza’
Te vo’a poner a brincar

Tengo algo rico pa’ que siempre me recuerde’
Por si mañana me pierde’
Tu cuerpo me provoca y no sé qué hacerle (eh)
Hace’ que yo vuelva a pecar
Yo conozco tu malda’, no te haga’ la inocente
Ella tiene su cuenta priva’
Me gusta montarla encima

En la Lamborghini prendiendo un Phillie
To’ vesti’o Amiri y la gorra es Louis V
Es rica esa mini, mami, ponte freaky
Yo te vo’a quitar esos biki
Ya sabe’ que es mío ese totito
Cuando quiera’, mami, te la aplico
A nadie en la calle yo el achico
Ando a lo maldito, siempre calla’ito
Véngase conmigo y nos vamo’ bien lejito’
Pida’ lo que quiera’, que lo vamo’ a gastar
El mundo entero explorar
En la Louis Vuitton nos ponemo’ a chingar (jeje)
Pa’ que no se te olvide má’

Ah, ah
Pa’ que no se te olvide má’
Ah-ah
Trr (tra)

Tengo algo rico pa’ que siempre me recuerde’
Por si mañana me pierde’
Tu cuerpo me provoca y no sé qué hacerle
Hace’ que yo vuelva a pecar
Yo conozco tu malda’, no te haga’ la inocente (ah)
Ella tiene su cuenta priva’ (ah)
Me gusta montarla encima (yeah, yeah)

EPiLOGUE

Burn and be burned. Cleanse and be cleansed. Accuse and be accused. The story is over. The ghosts are gone. You can love again. Or perhaps for the first time. Nothing to prove anymore. Everything to express. In your own divine rhythm.

Now you can own one of your deepest desires with no fear.

I search for a partner worthy of legend. One who feeds the fire of my making. The mother of all future myths. I am ready for her, I am worthy of her, I will care for her eternally. I am her(s).

iNSPiRATiON & PROCESS

Seven minute video & more