early saturday morning, sated with dancing, cosy in bed

writing don't cut it no more. 'one more drink and i'll be gone' warbles dave mathhews out of the laptop speakers. too many small twinges, too many rationalised but still desirable desires crowd my mind, but gently. i can't write them all out, at least not write them to do justice to their complex textures and varied colours. i imagine riversides and dancing shoes, stories and kisses. writing don't cut it no more.