O purple splotch, How dare you? Arriving by stealth to the back of my hand, claiming space, a fait accompli. You are an intruder beneath my skin. I say again, How dare you? Your coup unheralded, even by minor pain, suddenly you were just there. In days of old this could not have happened. In days of old my forces would have marshaled thick skin and stout-walled capillaries against your onslaught. Had you attacked in strength— the bang of a hammer blow, the tread of an opponent’s spikes, the slam of a door where my hand rested on the jamb— I would have known it in that moment. This noiseless, painless incursion is a new strategem, the exploitation of brittle skin and numbed receptors, but be forewarned: I am on to you. You and your cunning ways, how you will linger flaunting your port-wine-ness in my face, then six days hence decamp as silently as the Arabs, making me doubt my senses until the next signalless foray. How dare you? But at last, these marches can avail you nothing; for I have received the cure and simply wait for the finality of its deliverance.
Larry F. Sommers, Your New Favorite Writer