There is an interesting blue mark on my arm. It used to say 'Pre-admission testing', but was rubbed off in the rain. Now it's just a blue rectangle trying to be a cloud. It reminds me of tonight. The mark is soft, fading; I can see the marks that my skin makes against the imprint of the ink. Somehow, in this very surreal manner, it's rather beautiful, that seemingly faded blue mark, like an embroidered pattern on someone's jeans.

I don't know, tonight just seems soft, somehow.

This is another one of those lovely nights, when the air is still and all is quiet, but yet, somehow, one can hear whispers in the wind that seem otherworldly and divine. This is the sort of night that makes me feel like pulling on my oldest and most comfortable clothes and going walking in the darkness, wearing my sad, blue sneakers with untied laces. No, I'm not sad. Just that tonight seems so soft and lovely, that it makes me want to adopt the night's persona as well, and stroll aimlessly around the streets, prowling perhaps, and have people point at me in my fraying sweater and black trousers. Tonight is my perfect night.

One can almost see white Siberian tigers rolling in the snow with their mates or cubs, growling and playing; something so strong and masculine suddenly playful and friendly. Or maybe a wolf lying luxuriously along rough boulders and stones, gazing at its territory, stark black against the blue sky, moonlight reflected off its yellow eyes.

Tonight is beautiful, it truly is.

Everything seems softer. The hard wooden corners of my table seem to have melted away, and the white balcony railings seem malleable all of a sudden. This is such a soft night, everything about it whispers softness, whispers sensuality, whispers velvet and silk rustling against a marble floor, whispers water running over bare skin..honestly, it's almost as if I can see the night sky slipping down between my fingers, like fine grains of sand or metres of silk, falling, falling, brushing against my fingertips, like a gentle kiss.

Almost as if my surroundings have become a painting. One with bold and thick brushstrokes, painted by one who does not care much for detail, just the picture as a whole. I like that thought; fuzzy, bold lines and colours that don't quite fit but no one cares because it's altogether too beautiful and lovely anyway.

This is a perfect night for collapsing against a pile of soft blankets and bringing one's knees up to one's chest and going through old letters and photographs. Truly, this is a great night for drowning in memories, and for gazing fondly at old photos and wonder where they are now, or flicking through old letters written in odd handwriting and covered in strange patterns and reading all the silly or sappy things one has said through the years.

Tonight...is yielding. It is like syrup, or rich chocolate, or a pile of blankets, or a huge bed and a pile of blankets........tonight is so bloody soft it's incredible.

A perfect night to sink into old memories, to delve into forgotten nooks and crannies of your mind, and relive all those embarassing moments of one's life.

And yes, I am a sensualist.

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