On some days there are unseen textures all around, similar to sound waves and vibrations that you feel rather than hear. Humid air has texture, thick and damp. Wind has its own as well. The fall season with the smell of smoke in the air, decaying leaves and crisp cool air, is a sensory overload of invisible textures. You can hear and smell them as well as feel them.
Every day can be defined by its own particular texture, sharp like the razor's edge at times, rough as sandpaper at others. Some days are tacky skin after a long day at the ocean.
Today's texture feels exactly like I've plunged into a swimming pool of tapioca.
The world's pace spins slowly and my every move is met with thick, milky resistance, just like a fork whisking through a batch of instant pudding just as it begins to thicken up.
Today's Jazz Hands are long strands of vanilla, dripping off dulled silvery tines into a mixing bowl of unravelling molecules, suspending sugar and milk, trapped deep within their intrinsic structure.
Day three-hundred and seventeen complete.
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