The Mud Bath Begins

I step into the pit slow—like entering a temple made of rot and heat. The mud climbs me, hungry, thick, alive. I speak to it. I speak through it. Filth fills my mouth, coats my tongue, but I keep talking—calling whatever dark force lives in the depths. Every inch of me disappears under that heavy skin of shit and soil. I'm not just playing. I'm offering. I was made for this. This isn't performance, it's transformation. No safe words. No surface left. Just breath, sludge, and a voice that won't stop until the pit takes it all.