Infected.

The virus has commenced to breed.

Within my cranium, billions of tiny particles are writhing in parasitic throes of ecstatic multiplication. Though their presence affects me, I am not afraid. Merely curious and echoing their clamouring desires. I am, after all, the host with the most. Antibodies, my antibodies, wage their futile war deep inside my fleshy constraints, yet I wonder; do viruses feel, in any sense? Does my desire echo theirs, or theirs mine?

Two years ago, on St. Valentine's night, as I recall, my edges were sliced into ribbons of hot, viscous scarlet. The seeds of what these things are making me feel, were they present in some form then? That clawing, desperate, insatiable gluttony for an Other to feed on; to drain? I believe so. I believe it has always, always been there. A masochistic quest to possess, conquer and eventually obliterate. The realisation of self-obliteration in the final stage of ultimate dominance is both the masochistic beauty and ultimate irony of the process.

These gradually worsening headaches indicate that time, for myself at least, is short. Inside mon corps the viruses have become rampant; no longer content with the simple, leisurely process of replication, they turn instead to mass production. I understand; they have to fulfil their hard-wired instinctual raison d'être.

In more lucid moments I feel almost normal, until the red mist creeps back up from where it lurks in the dark squiggles at the edges of my vision, and I know no sense. It is then that my tenuous grasp of logic and pragmatism slips; I am theirs for the taking. In these absences of myself I am graciously granted the torturously delightful position of spectator. Like a Roman emperor of old, I sit in prime positional viewpoint to witness the carnage resulting from the lusts of these parasitic yet irresistible influences.

Oh;-but they are spectacular;-naked flowers bloom into the ripest and most succulent of fruit at "my" tender ministrations. Cities fall in a fizzing, sparking mass, accompanied by the treble forte symphonic screech of wrenching, tearing metal and the xylophonic tinkling of a thousand million windows shattered into an impossible number of glittering fragments…and in the midst of the chaos, I, myself, know peace.

Afterwards, "I" pour petrol by the tanker over the wretched remains, light a match, and allow the fire to lick the bloody wounds of the broken city clean like the most tender of lovers, reducing the reductions still further until the chiasmic gashes in the concrete at "my" feet are filled with bubbles of molten metal and sand. Molten metal, sand and stubborn, fragmented shards of bone. Finally pure; finally cleansed.

The viruses, when they release me temporarily, spread their stain upon me, mind and soul, so that I know that they are always there, will always be there. My neck rises in a delectably sore selection of bruises, the size of two-penny pieces, which multiply and migrate across my torso, stomach and thighs…Increasingly, their ultimate domination of me is unnecessary – I fulfil their wishes of my own volition, although who really is to say whether I'm more myself or them, now?

Men, women; it really doesn't draw distinction or differentiation. It is enough that I can feast on them, gorge on their flesh and revel in their emphatic moans and cries whilst I work my wonderfully slow torture over them. It was only over the past few weeks – since the headaches have ceased – that I have begun to see clearly.

If I am to be a good host and treat my guests with the courtesy that they warrant, then I must pander to their wants and foibles, not only of my own volition, but as second nature. If I am to survive, indeed, I must reconcile with that, and with this new variation of hunger; a gouging, insistent and incessantly pulling kind of hunger. Thus, my symbiosis and transformation into both host and parasite can begin.