Just let me reach out…

Let me touch your face.

My contact delivers…

…Infection.

My fingers ooze…

…Execration.

You are but a mere fantasy.

I will pustulate….

…This fantasy…

…Into a stale emptyness.

Ripples, like the surface of water.

They blur out your form.

I shall reduce your form…

It is my contact.

It will…


…Cause you…


...To become…


...Nothing.