The red on my lips helps me stay grounded, less ethereal. It keeps my mind sharp and aware of the bondage to my body. I study the mark it leaves on my glass as an irrefutable proof of interaction. I will aim to drink from that very same spot every time I quench my thirst, my body’s and my own. Thirst for this flavour, for the experience of this artistic expression in liquid form. Thirst for the taste of a skilful creation and appreciation towards the search of perfection within this balanced, complex enough, exciting libation. With my red landmark I reiteratively stamp my approval as I curate the delicacy in my glass. With this kiss I relate to celebrations that have taken place in the past. With this motion I am in the room with Joséphine, Anne, Tamara, with Hedy, Marilyn, Diana and with my neighbor next door, for we are all queens of our own kin, and the Physics that procure analysis on the behavior of time, still, run jealous-ly behind on this attempt to comprehend the bond within the female kind.

Red Lipstick. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

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