Albert Fish. Son of Sam. Confession letters regarding my adultery and the fear of death that never seems to shift. Joining me in the bath, you performed an act that left me temporarily blind, and I was sure the grim reaper was waiting the other side of the door ready to strike me dead as my hips spasmed and you took all I had to give. When you licked your lips, I bit my tongue and told you an anecdote about Mary Bell. You didn’t know who she was, however, and at that moment a part of me died that never returned. Still, the way you sank beneath the surface as I dried myself off was a sight for sore eyes. Those breasts of yours- how they floated. Those nipples- such pinnacles of pleasure that drove me wild as my tongue glided around them and across areolas that had a divine texture few would ever know. St Sebastian. John the Baptist. Heavenly creatures and the joys of what it is to be the same as God. Lambs. Knives. Abstract not abstract but a way of saying things that can’t be understood. Do you shave your pubic hair? Would you let me place my lips upon it and summon some form of nature beyond my understanding? Sometimes I feed you raisins. Sometimes when you’re sleeping, I hold you with tears in my eyes because we are only transitory and the time we get amounts to nothing when compared to the age of the stars. How can it be that your kiss won’t last forever? How is it possible we can’t dance for as long as we want? Do you get food poisoning from eating undercooked human flesh? This is what I ask you as we walk hand in hand through town on our way to a restaurant. My treat. No strings attached. Order what you want and enjoy yourself, and then when we get home, I’ll suck your toes and place a pillow beneath your hips so our passage to The Black Lodge is a fine one. Sing to me a song. Sam Colt. Soliloquy. Bodies as perversion as vessels as Salirophilia. Bite and chew. Bukkake. Transmission.