COLORED PENCIL ON BRISTOL
24 INCHES X 38 INCHES
Infection. The desire we wish to contract. The virus we're planning to spread. There's something diabolical in our desire for you to see us. There's something a bit mad. Something like that of the mad scientist, sitting in his lab and trying to engineer the perfect virus. We hope to be contagious. We hope to be running rampant. We hope to be the next epidemic that no one can escape. And this might make us severe, but that is exactly what we're hoping to be. There's something sinister in our desire for you to see us. Something that makes us craft ourselves in a new way. In a way that refuses vaccines. A way that will not accept treatment. Once you catch us we hope you'll never be able to let go. We want to be unforgettable. We want to be irresistible. But our contagion is only so much. All diseases can be treated. Our infection will never be perfect but this only drives us further in our concoction. We may never become truly irresistible but we will never cease striving to be. This infection may not swamp you. It may not encumber you to the point of no return. But surely you won't forget it. A disease like this may be healed but its memory will never fade. Be contaminated by us. Let us swim through your veins. Let your life be consumed by our flu and let it grip you for a time. But once it's gone, once you are healed, try to forget us. Try to forget the sickness that once was. The sickness that ravaged you. The sickness that plagued you. Try to unbind your thoughts from what seemed impossible to beat. You may overcome our infection. You may find a cure by some means. But the memory of us will never be forgotten. We want you to notice us. We want you to look at us. And we want you to never forget what you saw. You may look at us. You may look away. But may the vision of what you saw last with you for eternity. Be infected. Look At Me.