guilty quickie

Well two weeks have fled by, racing in terror from the advancing autumn. Leanne has come and now gone. Two weeks of laughter, stories, dreams, games, dancing, music, savouring. savouring. mmm
Highlights?
Montreal was statuesque and lurid as ever, gawd bless it.
The Rex has become a home away from home, fellow freaks and world travellers and music, such music. Kevin Quain, must remember that name - astral projection of Tom Waits: a beautiful way to end any day, start any night.
Long slow evenings of sipped scotch and backgammon.
Watching the sun rise from Angela's rooftop deck, the phallic tower a charcoal finger rubbing against the pale colours of dawn, after a night of hard liquor and soft smooches. I love girl kisses, they're so ...smooth. moist. that small pause, gasp of breath, sucking each second's pleasure, the lascivious lunge, hungry yet gentle. mmm.
And now, alone again - talking to myself and dancing nekkid in my glorious flat, sprawling out on the bed, or being loud or quiet whenever I want! And resting, recuperating, dreaming like Coleridge, laying in Wordsworth's words: "When from our better selves we have too long Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign, is Solitude."