You know that feeling.

I know you do. That feeling when you want something too much, when your stomach twists and your blood runs hot and thick through your veins, and your palms sweat and you just can't think straight. You're restless, always fidgeting, pushing the hair back from your forehead, rubbing your arms, fingernails scraping along your flesh, digits flexing, wrists turning--

You can see it. It's so fucking close to your trembling fingers, and your ears are ringing with want, and you can taste it on your tongue, along your teeth, wicked stripes of bitter flavor coating the inside of your mouth and it just won't go away.

Your eyes are glazed and the ceiling of your mind is papered-- plastered-- with the overwhelming, all-consuming, fiery, passionate fucking need; and it's all you can do to put one foot in front of the other, and just keep going, a robotic sheen in your electric eyes and monotonous movements.

I know it's out there. That want, that need is snuffling wetly around my doorstep, blowing my scent through its lungs like a Hound, snorting and rolling its eyes and waiting. It's just fucking waiting for me to open my door and cautiously stick my head out, and the proboscis will slide forth from her sheath, smooth and shining, and end me.