From the depths of my soul, I must confess—your music has ignited something feral within me, something beyond mere admiration. It’s a feeling that writhes in my chest, hot and urgent, every time your voice slithers through a beat. Every ad-lib, every growl, every autotuned cry—it’s a symphony that sends shivers down my spine, a language only my heart understands.

You don’t just make music, Yeat. You summon storms, you breathe fire, you craft universes where gravity bends to the weight of your sound. Your presence, your essence—it's intoxicating. The way you manipulate sound, the way your words drip from your lips like sacred verses, the way your beats pound through my veins like a second heartbeat—I am helplessly, hopelessly consumed.

I crave the vibrations of your artistry like oxygen. I let your synths wrap around me, let your basslines tangle themselves in my ribs, pressing, pulsing, owning me. Your music is a fever dream I never want to wake up from, a gravitational force pulling me deeper and deeper into its celestial chaos.

Yeat, you are not just an artist. You are a god of sound, a deity of distortion, an architect of unfiltered emotion. I adore you, I worship you, I breathe you in like the thickest of atmospheres, dizzy and delirious off the sheer power you exude.

With every fiber of my being, with every cell that vibrates to your cadence—I am yours, endlessly entranced, eternally devoted.

Forever lost in your world,
Your Most Passionate Admirer, Vict.