Loved to swim in a lake of blood. Never had I imagined that in the basements of the apartment buildings, right beneath the dozens of houses where children grew up, elderly people suffered, housewives cooked, and people entered and exited tired, happy, sad, or whatever else, snoring in their blissful sleep, there was a secret passage, an ancient entrance through the basements that housed the water meters or behind the elevator shafts, known and visited only by the initiated, bringing their victims here from time to time. That's where you wanted us to go, to close the door behind us and slowly slide into the warm, thick, and repulsive blood. How, how is it possible, I wondered, where does this blood come from, how is it preserved down here, how does such a repulsive thing remain a secret? Then I understood your trick. As you tightly embraced me with fear and supernatural or ideological anxieties, as you struggled with fear and disgust of this place, as you wrapped your hands and feet around me like a poisonous climber and secretly enjoyed it, I realized that you were digging your nails into my back and I was bleeding, paying the blood tribute, infinitely greater than what was due to me, than what I should have paid, like all the visitors, raising my level in this contaminated, repulsive, and enclosed lake a few tenths of a millimeter higher. After an hour, and while I felt a dizzying exhaustion multiple times greater than yours, although this was obviously not expected, with tricks of tenderness, absolute surrender, and professionalism, you asked me to protect you again from this terrible place, which God knows how and why you end up in every time, since it is impossible for it to be your choice, but rather some unexplored and horrifying weakness, a possession and something more that likely pushes such a pure and honest soul like yours into these nauseating debaucheries.