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Feb 11, 2019 23:41:51


by @daniellucas | 207 words | 🐣 | 80💌

Daniel Lucas

Current day streak: 0🐣
Total posts: 80💌
Total words: 23452 (93 pages 📄)

There was a girl in New York, a soft lipped, vulgar-and-luscious, ex-ballerina, who loved to cook shakshura, and take me to nude figure drawing and hunch over my shoulder to look at the project I was working on while we caroused on each other inside her apartment hiding from a blizzard (not an actual blizzard, just really fucking cold for my Californian-by-way-of-Brazil blood), barely able to remember each others real names and stories; strangers huddling inside a bomb shelter in the outfit of the Brooklyn Art Museums First Friday with Phony Ppl performing.

There was the girl, in the door way of the bungalow in Los Angeles, with a deftness I found inexplicable, and tongue-swelling, she shifted under the soft yellow light, against the turquoise couch, legs crossing, uncrossed and flipped back, she tangled with gravity to touch my arm, trying to cross the moat between us, her hand fully exposed when I, inexplicably, suggested her the bed and me the couch - despite the cold (obviously relative to New York, this was Los Angeles in March, so...) I stammered away my sheepishness, my deference to her body, my indifference exposing itself as capitulation, or maybe some version of false modesty; an anachronism being born in real time.

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