Morning sounds push hastily in the window, but I am awake already. I hang in bed, still tired, without heart for day again and I lay my cheek on my own arm and shoulder. It has a draughty skin smell. My hand falls gingerly on the strange skin of my upper arm, caressing it like a woman's hand would. If only there were the dead-weight body of a woman for me, with its great fleshy “thereness”. Piece by piece, touching me sacredly and blindly, she could recover me to life, and bring my blood to the surface again in joie de vivre.
Oh, the heavy, fleshy body of a woman. A girl, a woman, her flashing, blood-built body. Tender, with the heavy touch of female blood. Mindless, thoughtless blood.
If only she could be mindless and thoughtless, and in no hurry. Could run the little hairs of my arms between her lips, to return them to their protein glory, no longer little headstones of half-death. We would pass the unknowing soft gentle twitches of the pulses, like blind sentences to each other.
Oh, I want my blood to come out of hiding, come to the careful, cellular surface, all in strength, and make her touch, and touch. And I want my head to become consciousless as an arm or a leg, with the blood come blindly to its surface, for touch with her blood, and not for thought. Let us be overcome by our own bodies, and taken under.
And let us never have the mind of the common social world.
