It's a working Saturday, and I can't start working. Maybe it's the uneasiness I feel about how my nails consume the microscopic amounts of vanity I painstakingly inhaled from various sources, some questionable. I can't produce a clean slate just yet, hence the black on plum. The mess is a shame for someone who has an eye for detail, and I know he has eyes not only for detail but for beauty. There it goes again, another mention of my hopeless fixation. Which just got hopeful. Or not. Black on plum. It would be a nice color for sketching his hands. Not that this information is for public consumption. It just came out of an abundance. Which is still running, as you can see. Get scared. Cringe. Now.
I am finding it easier and easier to be with the Y-chromosome bearing species, just like when I was a ten year-old tomboy in grade school. The DOST team is almost complete, and I almost didn't notice that the only one with ovaries is me. Which is a good thing. I don't feel like extracting more vanity for social purposes.
Murakami is great. No, scratch that. Murakami is relatable. For my dark and twisties-infested head, at least. Dance, Dance, Dance is a dimension of being I was once at. Or am still at. It's too dark to know anyway. The skies are the color of my nails. Black on plum.
I'm gonna go get another cup of that white instant coffee.
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