Innocence came calling. What are you writing? I was writing about you, but didn’t say that, and it would have made no difference because it was never part of the plan.

Have you been sent by someone?
Have you come with a message?
Have you come to taunt me?
Have you come to kill me?

In the dark, I think only of sweat, tattoos, and dirty underwear. How erotic is that? The excitement before you destroy me.

Have you come with love?
Have you come with hate?
Have you come with both?
Have you come with nothing?

There is desire in the shadows. Hands everywhere, controlling, and satisfyingly rough. But there are unanswered questions. Do these hands belong to someone who wants me dead?

Have you got a disease?
Have you got a condom?
Have you got a knife?
Have you got other ways of killing me?

They will get you in the least expected way. Beware of Gabriele of Stadium, they said. He will exploit your weakness. He is the Angel of Death and brings only a glass full of piss and blood.

Lust shattered my guard.
Lust drowned my senses
Lust clouded my judgement.
Lust is the death of me.

The romantic Gypsy of Roma, who dances with a gun, and destroys hearts with the blade of Ardizzone, looks into my eyes. Is this the most addictive boy ever? Is this the saddest and perfect end? And after he slits my throat he will say to Alberto of Ostia that it was too easy.