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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-07-24 | [Aestu textŭ lipseashti s-hibâ dghivâsitŭ tu english] | Ânyrâpsitŭ tu bibliotecâ di jkloungsuh I write in praise of the solitary act: of not feeling a trespassing tongue forced into one's mouth, one's breath smothered, nipples crushed against the rib-cage, and that metallic tingling in the chin set off by a certain odd nerve: unpleasure. Just to avoid those eyes would help- such eyes as a young girl draws life from, listening to the vegetal rustle within her, as his gaze stirs polypal fronds in the obscure sea-bed of her body, and her own eyes blur . There is much to be said for abandoning this no longer novel excercise- for now 'participating in a total experience'-when one feels like the lady in Leeds who had seen The Sound Of Music eighty-six times; or more, perhaps, like the school drama mistress producing A Midsummer Night's Dream for the seventh year running, with yet another cast from 5B. Pyramus and Thisbe are dead, but the hole in the wall can still be troublesome. I advise you, then, to embrace it without encumberance. No need to set the scene, dress up (or undress), make speeches. Five minutes of solitude are enough-in the bath, or to fill that gap between the Sunday papers and lunch.
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