Where to put them? On your stomach? In the hollow of your just size in the birth of your hips? On your breasts? Is not it too fast? Every time, I give the impression of improvising, as in jazz, from a known and liked theme: the journey begins.My desire wants to meet yours, to make sure of it, to be delighted at the effect which it makes you. My hands slide on you at leisure, redraw you, sculpture you, half-open you; you shiver. I want it more: my lips look for your neck, for my cheeks the silky hidden recesses of your skin. My happy internal tension rises of a walking(step), every time I verify the firmness of your thighs, or the curve of your loins. Your body tightens(stretches out), my arms enclose him(it), stick him(it) against mine, your breast softens mine, my legs find yours, skip there. My pleasure it is this desire, more than such or such precise sensation of skin, it is the desire(envy) to invest(surround) you, that I so like making increase(grow). All my gestures(movements). “You see nothing alive here, but it is a living place. Even a thread might bind a god that mortals would break without thought.”“They don’t change places, do they, Pol?” Margaret asked.Wesley laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”There was a long pause and Wesley knew he had misspoken. He was drawn back in his mind to the patterning of the rostrum. He was sure there was a connection.It was Pol who once again broke the silence.“It is time to go.” He marched down the Cancer Avenue. It had been named by the group according to the sign on the rostrum in that direction. They were reasonably certain that this was east. It was the route they entered and exited by. They linked together and followed Pol as fog closed in on them again.When they emerged from the fog, the sun was still glimmering on the horizon and they had adequate time to locate their gear and light small lanterns before cooking the simple meal at dusk. The skies had stayed reasonably clear at the base camp with occasional wisps of.
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