'In my past I'd get day drunk and share secrets, unsolicited and unwanted with pretty strangers. Not the fun kind, either. Not the kind you'd tell at parties between sips of margaritas, giggles, and flushed cheeks. 
No, I'd tell them the secrets that would be the bile boiled out of my bones if you went to make graverobbers' soup out of my body, sent mangled, scarred, and weeping off a hundred thousand feet into the murky depths, praying via shopping lists for cement shoes to bring me closer to the ever-present, ever-starving bastard ancient elder gods, gone unchanged in a million years.

Men have been communing with sturgeon on their sorrows and mistakes for decades.

So I tell strangers about that: I tell them things so intimate and uncomfortable that they're compelled to listen to me and see me. They're compelled to insist against all my own doubts that I am there, that I exist in that moment, that time exists, that my hands touch, embrace and kill and feel.

If I'm not careful I mistake fascination with their loving me. Some people insist you can't love strangers, but I do. I have. Wrecklessly and freely, praying that they'll, just this one time, see me. Then I'll disappear so they can never touch me back: so they can never leave their mark but they carry a piece of me everywhere they go. 

This is a most selfish act.
This is my gravest secret.'