fiefoe

<Mating dance:>

What I'm really looking forward to is the autumn, to kicking through leaves on the way to a lecture, talking excitedly about the metaphysical poets with a girl called Emily, or Katherine, or Francoise, or something, with black opaque woolly tights and a Louise Brooks bob
I'm dancing as if my life depended on it, biting my lower lip seductively, both as an erotic signifier and an aid to concentration, and looking her straight in the eye, daring, just daring her to look away. Which she does.
I've got 98p in my pocket, and I'm hopelessly in love. Not hopelessly. Uselessly.
The thick emulsion of the lipstick creates an airlock around our mouths.
And all right, he's not Posh, but he is Cool, and Cool beats Posh in Alice Harbinson's eyes, sure as scissors beats paper. Of course, I see it all now, clear as day; the bastard's pulling a Heathcliff on me.
And now her hair is in my mouth. I try to flick it away by spasming an assortment of facial muscles, but this doesn't seem to work, so instead I crane my head backwards as far as I can, but her hair's still there, creeping up my nostrils now.

Samuel Beckett: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."

'Chinese burn', ' toe the line'

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"A Question of Attraction"