It's a sickness, a disease. A compulsion, an obsession, that owns,
drives, possesses him.
He walks through his day with it riding him, sleeps with it lurking in
his dreams and coloring them nightmare-gray, because it's wrong and he
knows it (loves it).
He could end it. Tell Blair what he's doing -- and Blair would be gone
before the echoes of Jim's shamefaced, whispered confession have died
away.
He contemplates that solution.
Blair. Out of reach.
And shudders, hugs his sickness closer, and feels the fever build.
It's better this way.
(Tonight. He has to -- just one more time. Please?)