It feels so wrong not filling my voids with the touch of another man. It was always my first instinct. Replace pain, anguish with tactile sensation. The smooth skin of another man as he made love to me was so gratifying, so emptily yet perfectly satisfying. I miss the touch, I miss the adventure, I miss the excitement. But now all I'm left with is nicotine and fleeting satisfaction. I'm trying to find my way back to the higher road, but I can't help but feeling I belong on the lower path. Why do I desire such greatness, yet aspire to destroy my own prospects?