I can spread my hands and legs free and uncensored. I am enjoying looking at my traces... poetic, delicate, instinct driven. I can play with my craft... clever! I can influence my own climax without hiding in a rabbit hole. I can spit at my own writing without having to bear the pain of humiliation. I can hate these words murderously without fear of others' judgment. I am without love and all rationality or am full of innocence-rated kindness, making love to the prose I write. There is no listener but my own eyes to read and I may ultimately discover a new Sheema without the guilt of infidelity.

Morality challenges my childhood.