I am useful and you are a user. I am available and you avail yourself.
But haven't you heard that there are no free lunches? My restaurant is
classy, the prices most exorbitant, the invoices accumulate with every
smile, with every word of reassurance, with every anxious inquiry as to
your health, with every sacrifice I make, however insubstantial.
I keep accounts in my unstated books and you rely on me for every
double entry. The voices I instill in you: "He gives so of himself
though largely unrewarded". You feel ashamed, compelled to compensate.
A seed of Trojan guilt. I harp on it by mentioning others who deprived
me. I count on you to do the rest. There's nothing more potent than
egotistic love combined with raging culpability. You are mine to do
with as I wish, it is your wish that I embody and possess.
The vise is tightened. Now it's time to ponder whether to feed on you
at once or scavenge. You are already dying and in your mental carcass I
am grown, an alien. Invoking your immunity, as I am wont to do, will
further make you ill and conflict will erupt between your white cells
and your black, the twin abodes of your awakened feelings.
You hope against all odds that I am a soul-mate.
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