Place your hand upon my brow and feel how I burn with fever. Soft, cold, rough, old… it does not really matter anymore. It’s not a long story. I had a fulfilling life. It left nothing to be desired. So boring! There was no imperative left to inspire motion or emotion but desiring desire itself. This disease was conceived in my late night foraging escapades under the spell of a thick yellow light that I had come to relate to a lemony breed of satisfaction. It was a moonless night. Not that I cared. Merely stating a fact of the matter for no reason that seems reasonable enough to me now that I come to estimate it in the light of your eyes and mine. What trajectories my…ahem… deep breath… Under the moonless skies, my eyes bright in yellow light of my liking, searched for the right ingredients to satiate propriety issues from earlier that evening and from some two decades of utter failure at decency. I could find none. “I should find one!” It would bring some fun and spread it ever so kindly across my pallid face, so I can rest my case, that my being is not tasteless. I must find a taste. I desire to find the taste that I desire. I desire to desire. I am sick. Place your hand gently upon my temple and feel how this burns me.