I just want to talk. I don’t need to touch you, not in that way. I’m a deviant. My goal is to creep silently inside places you’ve long forgotten existed. I won’t be subtle about it. You’ll know that’s where I’m headed and you’ll quietly, gently, beg me to keep going. Because you want to be known. You think you want to be touched and you’re right. But this touch has no palms. It has no fingertips or goosebumps. It has the sickest, most sadistic addiction that turns air into moans and words into time. We call it interest. And once it’s present, and you see how much of it I have, solely for you, you’ll lay back to be sought. And, destroyed.

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