I don’t like these nights. Everything I type, I want to erase. Everything I think, I want to hide. Every time I read old posts, I want to run. Every time I think about you, I feel ashamed. There is burden in my writing. Effort stands out politely because words here, in this part of the world do not move as freely as they do in yours. They are measured, thought of, erased, rewritten and scratched. They don’t look strung like beads on my paper because they are forced. There is effort and a sensuous flow in your words. Reading it produces orgasms of all kinds. How do you do it? Do you struggle too?