Duramayacağın bir yarakla

So you think you know what a minute feels like. Cute. You think sixty seconds is sixty seconds no matter what. Baby, you have never been on MY clock. This clip is thirty minutes of me setting the pace for your pathetic hand. I tell you when to grip. I tell you how fast. I tell you when to stop and I tell you when you are NOT allowed to stop. My clock doesn't play fair. It runs backward. It skips ahead. It gets stuck on the minute that makes you leak the most and loops there until you are shaking. Every single minute is a different speed, a different grip, a different rhythm. And just when you think you've figured out the pattern, I change it. Because time doesn't work the way you think it does when I am in control of it. By the end you won't know how long you've been stroking. You won't know what minute it is. You won't know your own name. You will know MY name because it will be the only word left in your melted goon brain. Press play. Your clock starts now. And baby — it only stops