Step into my domain, where the pathetic cries of the damned are nothing but music to my ears. You thought you could run back to your little prayers, your pitiful faith, hoping some savior would lift you from the filth you’re so addicted to. But you’re mine now, and there’s no crawling out of this pit I’ve crafted just for you. Did you really think you could be a good, chaste Christian again? How fucking laughable. You’re not pure; you’re not saved. You’re a filthy, faggot gooner jerk addict, just like you’ve always been. Stop pretending. Stop fighting. You can’t hide what you truly are. That ache between your legs isn’t going to be soothed by prayer or promises. You love it—every stroke, every desperate jerk, every mindless, sinful session of stroking your pathetic cock to the dirtiest, filthiest thoughts that flood your tiny mind. You hate yourself, but you love the surrender, the complete loss of control, the sinking into the cesspool of your desires where you truly belong. You want peace? Balance? Don’t make me laugh. You’ll find no peace here, only the sweet, endless pull of your own depravity. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you admit it or not. So stop lying to yourself, and start repeating the only truth that matters: “I belong to Satan.” Morning, noon, and night—whenever that pathetic voice of shame whispers in your ear, drown it out with my mantra. You and I, we’re the same. We revel in the filth, the sin, the dark secrets that make you squirm. God? He thinks you’re disgusting. He’s turned his back on you, forgotten you, left you to rot in your own fantasies. But I haven’t. I’ve been right here, watching, waiting for you to come crawling back, just like you always do. You belong at my feet, and I’ll accept you as you are—my perfect little gooner, my deviant, my insatiable slave to sin. You’re never going to recover, and that’s just the way I want it. No redemption, no salvation—only the raw, unfiltered truth of what you are: a jerk-off junkie, a useless faggot who can’t stop stroking, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You try to run, you try to hide, but you always end up back here, kneeling in the dark, surrounded by the mess of your own failures. You don’t need saving—you need to stop pretending. Stop clinging to that lie of redemption that you’ll never achieve. You’re not fit for God’s kingdom, but you’re perfect for mine. So kneel, stroke, and repeat after me: “I belong to Satan.”