Your hand cramps. Your ego dissolves. The ink bleeds. Two hours pass. She hasn't touched you once.

And you are honored.

You kneel on rice. She sits on silk. The window is open to a Zen garden—rock, sand, eternity.

In that stasis, in the humid Tokyo night, with the cicadas screaming and the rope biting into your skin, you finally understand. You are not her toy. You are her haiku —short, painful, and containing a universe of meaning in seventeen syllables.