I had a red dress, not fire-engine red but red-red enough to curl the curlicues upon the material into an Oriental design like the musk of the semi-tropics distilled into a perfume.
Scent, scent. I would have the scent of that mood, of white monkeys there jumping from tree to tree with no one to shout at them. What impunity. What imps.
What Oriental and impalpable imps to stir the mood of musk, of the curlicues of that red dress, a loner in my wardrobe of Western stock.
It belonged to loud crowd sounds, to Ahmed take this box, to a language that was sandy and orange, to the sighs of the drought of a hot winter.
It was a pattern of the material, and what an impalpable pattern to drink the water there with its unique microorganisms.
Now I more often wear jeans of the spirit, more palpable anyway.