Claustrophilia

It's just me throwing myself at you, romance as usual, us times us, not lust but moxibustion, a substance burning close to the body as possible withut risk of immolation. Nearness without contact causes numbness. Analgesia. Pins and needles. As the snugness of the surgeon's glove causes hand fatigue. At least this procedure requires no swag or goody bags, stuff bestowed upon the stars at their luxe functions. There's no dress code, though leg irons are always appropriate. And if anyone says what the hell are you wearing in Esperanto —Kion diable vi portas? — tell them anguish is the universal language. Stars turn to trainwrecks and my heart goes out admirers gush. Ground to a velvet! But never mind the downside, mon semblable, mon crush. Love is just the retaliation of light. It is so profligate, you know, so rich with rush.