I like to walk. I like to walk on a cold day when I'm all wrapped up and the sky is clear and the sun is low and the air is thin and the smell is crisp and my feet crunch-crunch on the autumn leaves. My nose and cheeks and ears are cold, and my feet might even be a little wet, but in general I'm just fine diddly wine, listening to my MP3 music...and with music I could walk all day. I have my finest, most productive conversations with music.

I also love to dance. The anonymity of a nightclub turns into a sort of arena for me if the music is right and loud enough. A beat, a beat, two feet, two feet, and I love to let the music run through my veins like a drug. Close my eyes and get totally high from an accumulation of sounds, unified as one.

Sometimes, maybe once or twice a week, if my flatmates and I have let the washing up build up during the day, and we have dinner timed well so that we all eat together, I'll make it my turn to wash the dishes up. To fill the sink with hot, hot, hot water, dip my hands in, take my time, do each plate, each fork, each knife, each cup and glass and collander and seive, with precision and thoroughness. The same girl each time, one of my flatmates, usually dries while I wash, and another female flatmate usually talks to us while we do our business. I listen, but I don't talk; I leave it to the girls to interact. It's not ignorance; it's a self-contained harmony, and the rhythm with which I clean the dishes is decidedly therapeutic.

I like rhythms; steady, neverending, almost monotonous rhythms, probably linked to the monotony of endurance, which in turn is linked to my boyish need to test myself against the boredom of life. Walking, walking, walking; dancing; dancing; dancing; washing; washing; washing.

And there's a steady rhythm in masturbation too.