Don't Touch

Whenever I come home from good times, I have an almost standard routine of laying on the floor of my room to just let the hype dust settle and make its way into the different cracks and holes of my being. It helps with my perpetual desperation for catharsis.

I did the same two nights ago. My dress still smelt like a genial old man who smoked "for the right reasons" (thanks for the strawberry cigar, Isky!), new shoes, Chinatown crowds, and the sleek metal bar stools from Locker Room.

While I allowed the night to kind of eddy its way around my room, it was very nicely punctuated by the sound of ruffling from the luminarias. It's a very soft sound, like how I would imagine wool would sound like if sheep rubbed against one another when they hugged (do sheeps hug?). It was just tissue though, meeting the wind from my fan.

And for a while I was a bit transfixed by its little dance. It's a beautiful thing to watch, honestly. Like tons of little jazz hands, or those sea anemones that sway idly at the bottom of the sea. It kinda quivers and shivers, but it's graceful. Like a pretty girl crying.

I like things where you don't have to touch them to know how they feel like. When you can derive its surface from all your other senses. I like the part where you form your own fantasies about how they'll slip off your skin or how much of you will sink into its fabric.

I prefer decadent textures (who doesn't?), ones that are plush or smooth or tickle. Tulle, satin, chiffon, tissue, feathers, felt, velour, parquet, silk. Things like that.