Maybe by the end of the semester I’ll be really really good at drawing Professor Edmund. Too good. It will be ingrained in my muscle memory. People will see my beautiful portraits of this man, and by their request I shall perform new works — pictures of landscapes, boats and The Queen — but each work will look exactly like Professor Edmund. My once-generous commissioners will turn sour, demanding I draw properly, and to fullfill expectations I will secretly compose each new work from snippets of Ed. My mountains will be the creases in Ed’s skin, my grass shall be hair from Ed’s mustache, and my lakes shall be the shimmer of Ed’s eyes crossed with the wrinkles of Ed’s dress shirt.
As the condition progresses, I will wear gloves — terrified by the fear that all my hands touch will turn to Ed. And when my attention lapses, the gloves themselves will turn, and fall from my fingers, stuttering complaints. Before I am aware of it, my dog will be Ed, my wife will be Ed, my refrigerator and my favorite brand of nachos will be Ed. And I, too, will be Ed.

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