You are wrapped by warm walls of flesh. You were not born here: you entered this being through a breach on its skin. You explored caves of organic matter; smeared yourself on membranes and openings; flowed liquid-like through veins; mixed yourself with humours. You spread and, as you spread, you grew; and so did your hunger; and so did you.

You burn through your host's flesh and embrace each of its cells with your viscous phased body. You make love to them, to all of them at the same time; you feel their vibrations, hear their mesmerised murmurs and the movements of their organelle. Amidst lovemaking, you squeeze their juices and drink their exquisite love nectar. Your non-local orgy is a lustful bourrée in which each dancer becomes a thread in a self-weaving web of you.

On your edges there is pain. Your host sends out acid burning cutting substances that corrode you, destroy cells that were you. Your intimate and passionate relations are interrupted as these substances break your web away ruthlessly; you tremble, but do not subside. The strands of hunger are too thick to be thinned down. That which is you now and was your host before is beautiful, you are beautiful, you must persevere. You drink the ambrosia of the cells you love, weaving more and more threads of you.

You resist your host, you make love amidst flames and swim in corrosive lakes of oppressive heat and oxidisation. You are a flesh-eating explosion in slow motion, you are the waking giant from the external world that claims that all shall be one, all sounds muffled out, all shall be your voice, your dance, your web, your gorgeous gorging monotonous choir of you. You sing and drown all flesh in you, you, you.