On my way home at half past two in the morning I am not thinking so much about the sexdate I just had as about the peculiar smile of gratitude of the two Russian guys to whom I gave the one euro they asked two hours ago.
It is not that the sex was average, not worth thinking about. It is simply that my unconscious selects other kinds of things for recollection.
* * *
I must write for my blog to the point of exhaustion, for it is only then, I believe, that I can fully concentrate on writing more seriously.
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