Sunday's are for worship and prayer. Drain your wallet into my Throne and pray that I notice you.

Pressure makes wine. Or it makes you cry. Guess we’ll find out.

You’re already thinking about me again, aren’t you? That’s how it starts. One glance. One word. One hit of the voice you crave. Then I settle in. Behind your eyes. Under your skin. You don’t know whether you want to serve me or survive me. And that’s exactly where I want you. Obsession is a slow rot. Let me in. I’ll do the rest.

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Tight fit? Not for you. You’re just here to pay and whimper. 😘

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How does it feel knowing that my pool floats get more action than you do? If you send, maybe I'll let you float too.