Things feel red, lately.
Not red with anger, but red as in human.
Sexual. Messy. Carnal.
No matter how much I try and train my brain to be diligent and to follow the barks of self discipline, my body, with the slightest movement, will hand me a shredded pile of the leather I've tried to harness its wants and memories with.
It happens so quickly and easily.
A thought crosses my mind, and although I attempt to think myself away from it, my pulse has already quickened; the center of my palms already a damp want.
(pause)
Last night I was sitting at an open air cafe talking with the Spanish architect I have befriended. Everything around us smelled of liquor and gravel. I was engrossed in our conversation and didn't notice the people on the street as they walked by the cafe's large windowless window, until one person walked by whose movements reminded me of someone I used to touch. And- like that- my chin snapped in the direction of the person as they walked by. Following my gaze the Spanish architect asked, purely,
Do you know him?
The question didn't register right away. Then I shook my head trying, discreetly, to calm my body.
No,... no. I thought it was someone I knew, and lifted a steady glass of water to my lips.
(photo : La Naissance des Pieuvres by Nathan Duarte via Gacougnol tumblr)
[This entry may be read listening to Idioteque somewhat loudly for the pounding and urgency of sound]
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