Finite. Small potatoes. He could pick them up piece by piece. they held heat, ready to release themselves to him by the mere suggestion of his teeth.
The potato offered a titillating semblance of resistance when he went to it -- then it opened up, engulfing tongue and gums. The hot expectation of pain -- loving burns, scalding flesh, pith. But no -- he knew. As delightfully expected, the potato slushed and mushed between the underside of his tongue and the back of his teeth.
It touched him where no other could, and gave him the pleasure of its yielding -- none other could know. Only he was allowed to see the heat, smell the softness. Only to his nose would the potato speak and beckon, seducing him into allowing the potato to surrender and embrace that part of his mouth he did not even know. It filled his nothing with enigmatic matter, submissive warmth. Its soul penetrated the virgin parts of his tongue and gave birth to it again and again and gave him the knowledge of its existence.
And the potato wanted his mouth. the potato wanted him to be the one to break its finiteness and colored skin and let it release what it was -- nothing, mush. It made itself a thing with salt, and heat, borrowed from water. This mask of existence kept titillating and distracting him from the nothingness whenever the pleasure hit his soul -- the knowledge that what he thought was nothing *was*, and it was enjoying a thing that was *nothing.*