My dressing room is a basement where the heating pipes leak until early March. The Internet Superstar loves Spring's warm enclose.
At work I am one with the machine. After the spiritual blight of day I return home to ascend from rubble into the pixellated firmament of Internet Message Boards. Constellations rise from every word I type. A Superstar strolls, bashful as a Deus Absconditus, midst the common folk of town. My secret is guarded fervently as Holy Men keep vigil over Sacred Relics. The strain of living this masterpiece erodes my spine.