The weak servant adjusts his blindfold, then clasps his shaky hands back in prayer. His forearms show gold-sparkling radiation burns from thine Holy touches. Each incense-laden breath of his brings faintness to his head, Your gold presence thick in the air. "You wished for my presence, L--lord...?"

Your eyes easily see past the blindfold, see the bags of his eyes underneath. Your eyes pierce his flesh and see the tumors beneath. Long exposure to You takes a toll. Yet, he doesn't leave, nor struggle.

He comes when you ask him to. Amusing, is it not?