I regret nothing.

My breakfast this morning consisted (other than the gorgeous view, which truly is such that one could simply feast on it) of artichoke heartsⁱ, cucumber slices, lamb meatloafⁱⁱ and baked potatoes, with a finger root, lemongrass, shallot, garlic, cardamom, coriander comin, tumeric an' some kinds of pepper Thai-style thick green curry paste on the side. I like this presentation of curry paste, so thick it stands on its own, you can dab things in it if and when the inclination strikes. Oh, yes, and grated aged goat cheese, a thing of wonder. It ages so well, somehow, I doubt any European caves can claim its pair. I know, cheese aging is not supposed to work, at the tropics. Yet it does, somehow, this local year-old goat cheese I wouldn't trade for anything in memory. Fresh buttermilk on the side, and the excited pik-poks of colibri birds darting everywhich way.

I ate alone ; the girls are all destroyed. We were supposed to go to the beach, this morning, so everyone was up at four (but me, I'm only awoken once the preparations are all made and we're ready to go, five-ish or so). It had started raining the evening before, and it rained through the night ; the satelittes confirmed it's raining at the beach, and guessed that it might stop within a coupla hours, to probably start again in six, or eight. Rain at the beach is not necessarily terrible, if you're in the water anyway what difference does it make ; but if it rained all night the sand is imbibed, so wet setting a towel down will result in a dripping towel. I did not feel particularily like driving over to be convicted to the water, and so I called the trip off. It's the first in who even recalls how many dozen such trips that ever was called off ; the slavegirls upon whose welted butts and eager backs and toils and tears glory is built sighed if not necessarily relief then still, discharge, and went to bed. They're there still, collapsed, ruined, enjoying absent-mindedly the exceptional pleasure of a stolen moment, a stretch of early morning thought lost yet still reclaimed for the volupty of sleep... perchance of dream, of being as if dead.

When I woke up myself, hours ago, naturaly, sated of the immotile activity/passtime, I had a vague notion in my mind, that I'ma have one masturbate herself, slowly, adroitelyⁱⁱⁱ while the other fondle, kiss and worship my penis. We were to spend these morning hours thusly, in a milky soft daze of cvasi-existence, afloat on a limpid, languid sea of misty fluff. But, it was not to be, the best laid dreams of men, like meece, do often go astray.

I regret nothing ; and so I ate, and then I wrote. The eating done, the writing done... I shall go back again.

1. I do not mean canned or anything like that. Fresh buds that had been boiled, in water, in a pot. Artichokes eaten exactly like a century or two millenia ago. I don't believe in change, nor do I eat the deplorable cheapenings of "progress", sad daughters of a prole world hardly worth the mention even if only an' strictly for heaping scorn. [↩]
2. Fucking fabulous, and of course home made. I've never had meatloaf like this, it's incredible. [↩]
3. She's talented ; and trained amply, over long years, to masturbate well, deeply, to play with herself such as a pastry chef might play with his dough, were he not interested in turning it into any particular product. Lovingly and disinterestedly, comprehendingly and self-searchingly, mercilessly and cruely and yet... She can edge herself four hours, she can tear her own metaphorical, imaginary skins off of her herself starting from that internalized button, she can do to herself what Impressionist painters attempt[ed] upon their models for the benefit of a discerning, sophisticated, well informed audience... [↩]