The scales of me are peeling off. Everything I consider myself to be is falling away. It reveals the needy pulsing core that wants simple things: the press of others against it, the movement, the colours, the sound. Most of the time it's very hard to remember that there is that need inside me. The body seems to be something I have to endure and control. It rarely works as a means to express myself. Still, that hour when I forget about superficial things is special. It's not perfect. Every recent experience is almost equally black and white, but it helps me to discover something. I know myself a bit better now.