Nothing much. A day of rest. The less he does the more that happens
because we won't be getting in the way of the all imminent will of fate. Maybe
the universe wants to take our pants off and give us x-ray spex whilst I am
counting the freckles about your nipples and you are weighing the taste of my
rock. But words are the only wit we have and the golden slither of juicy red
pomegranate crack I see before me cannot, unfortunately, be tasted in this
life, or this dimension, but the sight of it can have such a vivid effect upon
the imagination as to lead to vigorous manipulation of the gear stick which
yields the oil spill when the brakes appear to fail.
Nothing much, a day of silk
and a brazen touch of naked heat. Nothing much, I'll get undressed and take to
bed, the silhouette of your hemisphere, the pulse of your aura, the scent of
your cheek.
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