Taste: overly sweet tartness, citrus
Touch: slimy, a sisal sponge soaked in stale water and lye; dripping juice on chin, cheek and fingers
Smell: a hint of patchouli in the wood-burning smoke-tinged air as if the whole town were trying to disguise its love for pot
Sight: the Gothic implications of a rusting wrought-iron fence; if the manikins are so chic dressed in torn shopping bags, why must I be enticed to buy the expensive clothing inside the boutique?
Sound: the rhythmic printer's raspy hum, hum, hum
Extra: the hot air balloons float down the sides of the canyon painted with the claws and faces of cats leering like the demons in Japanese fairy tales; running ahead of the men in white holding their strings looking up at a scene like Burning Man, where everything at eye-level is coated in a matte of white alkaline dust but the sky remains strikingly blue and the colors in it are vivid, I race ahead of the balloons so that I can hear the sound a magnificent swoosh, a flock or birds, a vibration that makes me lift my arms up in exaltation; the women are rolling down the steep, terraced hill to be safe, so as not to fall, but now they have drunk so much they are in danger of breaking their necks, which bend over much and I have stayed too long at the party without him and now I cannot find him anywhere; I am stopped by the man who releases all the tension between my shoulder blades with a single touch, but then it is a ruse, he wants payment of 20$ or maybe $10 I cannot read the sign exactly, and then he is busy with another woman who seems to be a better customer, and then I have let go of the leash and I cannot find Sunny anywhere which is always a bad sign and I cam yelling for her, "Taffy! Taffy!" which is not her name but the name of my childhood pet
Touch: slimy, a sisal sponge soaked in stale water and lye; dripping juice on chin, cheek and fingers
Smell: a hint of patchouli in the wood-burning smoke-tinged air as if the whole town were trying to disguise its love for pot
Sight: the Gothic implications of a rusting wrought-iron fence; if the manikins are so chic dressed in torn shopping bags, why must I be enticed to buy the expensive clothing inside the boutique?
Sound: the rhythmic printer's raspy hum, hum, hum
Extra: the hot air balloons float down the sides of the canyon painted with the claws and faces of cats leering like the demons in Japanese fairy tales; running ahead of the men in white holding their strings looking up at a scene like Burning Man, where everything at eye-level is coated in a matte of white alkaline dust but the sky remains strikingly blue and the colors in it are vivid, I race ahead of the balloons so that I can hear the sound a magnificent swoosh, a flock or birds, a vibration that makes me lift my arms up in exaltation; the women are rolling down the steep, terraced hill to be safe, so as not to fall, but now they have drunk so much they are in danger of breaking their necks, which bend over much and I have stayed too long at the party without him and now I cannot find him anywhere; I am stopped by the man who releases all the tension between my shoulder blades with a single touch, but then it is a ruse, he wants payment of 20$ or maybe $10 I cannot read the sign exactly, and then he is busy with another woman who seems to be a better customer, and then I have let go of the leash and I cannot find Sunny anywhere which is always a bad sign and I cam yelling for her, "Taffy! Taffy!" which is not her name but the name of my childhood pet
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