handkerchief. i am just looking at mine. it needs a wash, urgently. it invites a blow dryly though it is marked with old blows. i feel a kind of perversion in making the white lace discoloured. i've got a pair of lace knickers in my bag, they're not marked. infact they are so clean they smell like glue. they're creamy, my friend once called me that; creamy. i guess i'm quite creamy.
i've drawn myself a stencil of a tattoo on the innerside of my wrist, its a sail boat, simple shapes; halfcircle, stick, triangle. it means 'freedom', toward the light, and death. or so i've heard. its for peeping tom, if i ever get it. because he released me, in many ways, and i should remember it.
so my girl slash martian came today. we ate sugar, sitting on a sun-bleached rug by the river. i've told her some dirty secrets, and she's told me some. but she's essentially caked in sadness, i long to de-cake her.
number one reason to live: the possiblity of unending sex and chocolate. i've got to learn more about sex first.