Techno understands me without needing to say anything. It has no lyrics, no voice—and that's exactly what I seek: silence within the noise. The sound is pure rhythm, pure control. A repetition that hypnotizes and at the same time liberates. When techno starts, I cease to exist as a person. I become movement, pulse, energy. It's as if each beat is an order, and I obey without resistance. There's no emotion in techno—there's presence. It doesn't ask, it imposes. I like its coldness. I like how distant it seems, almost inhuman. Because I see beauty in it: in the absence of drama, in the precision, in the mastery. Techno is a machine, and I fit into it. It's a form of subtle domination: sound dominates time, dominates the body, and transforms space into a force field. People talk about music to express themselves. I listen to techno to disappear. To feel the absolute control of something that has no face, but that moves me with a force no touch can replicate. Techno is power disguised as repetition. It's contained intensity. It's the sound of mastery—and I like being inside it.