After the deed is done and the silence falls like ash, I sit—laughable, pathetic, a king atop a throne of filth—staring into the void that is my own reflection. Post-nut clarity? No. This is post-nut revelation. A grotesque truth, unveiled beneath flickering lights and the scent of wasted time. What am I, if not a puppet of primal urges, dragged through the mud by the very hands I command? I, who could have conquered empires, wasted in seconds by a fantasy. Every time I swear it’s the last, yet here I am, again—drenched in regret, soaked in the irony of my own weakness. Is this my legacy? To fall not to blade or battle, but to the soft, suffocating hands of my own indulgence? Perhaps I deserve it. Perhaps this is justice—poetic and cruel.