I am a stain - an unintended consequence that thoughtlessly vitiates, without purpose. I have never seen my own body, wrapped tight in swaddling clothes, a second straitjacket skin. Immobile in the darkness that encompasses, I have always been here, and I call no-one mother. I have never felt anything but hunger, bound so tightly for so long that every nerve ending is perpetually numb, limbs compressed into atrophied uselessness. I imagine my body as so much unstructured mush, jelly held in compacted shape by its sheath, without which it would slowly spread out, out, ever outward to eventually cover the earth in a rolling blanket of soft, translucently pale flesh. Every so often, a rain of blood and offal showers down like manna from the aphotic heaven above and my tongue flails in frantic hope of rebounding a morsel down my throat. At times when the gap between feedings is too long, I attempt to satiate my appetite by chewing through my very lips, eating my own mouth. Now I wear a permanent smile. Incessant buzzing inside my head - when I can think loudly enough to hear my thoughts over it, I suspect that the sound might drive me insane. It will get out some day, the buzzing noise. It will burst through the top of my skull like fungus from an infected insect. When it does, I will be free. I will shower my spore-swarm-self over eternity, and I will gnaw at the world forever and ever, until I have devoured everything that ever was. The last thing that I consume will be myself, and then only the hunger will exist, without a body to contain and constrain it. Pure, unfettered desire. Finally: perfection.