Removing the mug from my lips, I think about how delightful it would look to have a stain strewn across the cylinders side.
I write "Purchase Lipstick " in my agenda, knowing I will not buy it otherwise.
Or, at all, really.
Lipstick, has always seemed a hassle to me. I would never want my mark brightly pasted on the cheek of the man I slept beside the previous night. Nor, would I want it smudged across my incredibly large smile.
Oddly enough, I continue to contemplate the thought of me with cherry lips, on a daily basis.
As if, there is nothing else to think about.
So, I jot it down, while staring out the window at this gloomy December, two a.m,
the rain patting my decision on the back.
Then, the faintest sound of a fire engine is drown out by incessant screams from howling woman.
Will I be too painted with a coat of red disguising my otherwise pale pout?
I think of these whores, barking at the moon, suffocating the loudest sounds of the city, with their sloppy seconds mouths covered in caked on colour.
I close the window motionlessly, and the rain has stopped encouraging me.
I feel if I am deliberating a product this closely, I've been awake too long.
Shut the screen, close the critics tight.
I could be reading about London in the Sixties or Unknown species of Iguanas.
I could be, somewhere, very, different.
