You wear white jeans, white tank top white suspenders white polo shirt, three buttons, one undone, with the neck pulled open to show your chest hair.
You've worn these jeans for three days, there's dirt marks on the pocket lips and around the button hole and zipper. Brown and grey smudges. A red mark of something, lipstick?, on your left thigh near the soft round of your dick (white underwer too, fourth day, not turning colors but gathering smells). The tank is on its second day, already a streak of purple near your right hip eyeshadow?, a coffee mark on the front hem, generally greyed, particularly under the arms and at the top of the belly. The polo is new today, already its thin collar curls at the points but it's brightness offers a contrast to the dimness of the jeans, its tightness makes your chest look big. You can not imagine wearing a color, or black, in fact as you try to put together tonight's nightlife look you're filled with uncertainty, nervousness, fear. A thin whine of fear that seems to slice upward from your heart into the back of your throat. You've lost your voice. everyone says something different, sleep, lemon, honey, saltwater. You think maybe the white, all of it can bring back your voice. Without the ability to talk you start to lose the desire. Your shoes are not white, your socks were earlier, but are now dingy, in just hours the bottoms have a dark black print of the balls of your feet and the pads of your toes. You are getting paid ten dollars an hour, at 8a.m., to where these clothes and sell these clothes, you do. and as you do you collect color, or dirt, or both, not purposefully but inevitably, just as the day inevitably drips past or inevitably you must pay your bills, or inevitably you will sleep through no will or desire but just fact, with that inevitability your white becomes less. its this process this inevitable fact of the darkening of your clothes that keeps you in them. do you feel me on this one?
You've worn these jeans for three days, there's dirt marks on the pocket lips and around the button hole and zipper. Brown and grey smudges. A red mark of something, lipstick?, on your left thigh near the soft round of your dick (white underwer too, fourth day, not turning colors but gathering smells). The tank is on its second day, already a streak of purple near your right hip eyeshadow?, a coffee mark on the front hem, generally greyed, particularly under the arms and at the top of the belly. The polo is new today, already its thin collar curls at the points but it's brightness offers a contrast to the dimness of the jeans, its tightness makes your chest look big. You can not imagine wearing a color, or black, in fact as you try to put together tonight's nightlife look you're filled with uncertainty, nervousness, fear. A thin whine of fear that seems to slice upward from your heart into the back of your throat. You've lost your voice. everyone says something different, sleep, lemon, honey, saltwater. You think maybe the white, all of it can bring back your voice. Without the ability to talk you start to lose the desire. Your shoes are not white, your socks were earlier, but are now dingy, in just hours the bottoms have a dark black print of the balls of your feet and the pads of your toes. You are getting paid ten dollars an hour, at 8a.m., to where these clothes and sell these clothes, you do. and as you do you collect color, or dirt, or both, not purposefully but inevitably, just as the day inevitably drips past or inevitably you must pay your bills, or inevitably you will sleep through no will or desire but just fact, with that inevitability your white becomes less. its this process this inevitable fact of the darkening of your clothes that keeps you in them. do you feel me on this one?
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