Re: Images
I always wanted to write a book. To sleep under the stars with gypsy girls. To have my hair knotted. Torn out at the scalp in heated cat-roars. My fists can do the talking. Today my nails command their own respect. Beautifully manicured. I admit, I want to taste the dirt lurking underneath. That grit after mud-pies. The saline sensuous blood seeping through, trickled streams down cheeks after heated-debates.
The morning stretches beyond me. It goes on and on. I talk articulate, animated with eyes and contacts. Polite nods, ahan, yes. I could write a story about her face, I look and look. They speak. I approve. So many oceans of faces. So many stories.
Today is no different from Wednesday. I have everything I have ever wanted.