ocean walking

The weak 6 am sunlight streams in through the ragged red curtains, transforming her brooding boudoir into a mysterious chamber of rust. And as she teeters at the edge of wakefulness, she feels herself sucked into an ocean of lust. Crows bray, donkeys caw, children cry, milk vans yawn down the road outside. Entirely immaterial, terribly mortal. The familiar cymbal-ic taste of metal spreads across her tongue; puts a silencer on her tympanum. Jazz hands, shiver, shiver, shimmy. A tireless tingling rolls down her chest, like lightly warmed wild honey; it reaches for her belly button- the holy trail of sensation. Invisible fingers trace a waltz around this powerful button- second in command in the quest for O, second only to the holy grail of ecstasy located further south. But to get there, one must cross the district where pelvic personnel hold fort, guarding the throne below with calcium caution. They allow only the purest, most persistent of passions down the valley of crevices, into the receptacles of wild oats. There they may partake of an affair that is as sweet as Japanese sticky rice, sour as young plum, fiery as hot sauce, rhythmic as a slow rumba.