My hands are covered, massacre-like, in red ink. I have a leaky pen. I should get rid of it but I just can't quit its seductive, felty tip.
At the very least I should wash my hands. But, I confess, I feel that ink-covered hands give me an air of the artiste, or perhaps the mad genius. Non? It is pathetic and pretentious all at once. There you have it: the raw underbelly of my psyche exposed. Please retract the claws when you come to give me a rub.
No comments:
Post a Comment