One day she sent me a short sentence.

Another day a sweet phrase of a warm song.

Another day, her feet, her nails the colour of murikku resin, half coloured by sunlight and the other in shadows, like a chiarascuro painting.

My desire went out to each of these vignettes of her self. The voice was as erotic as her sentence, which was in turn as erotic as the feet.

But consider the usual evolution of desire with a human as an object. Desire is directed to the visible extremities of the body which, even in their bared conditions, is acceptable and traditionally considered barely erotic. With each move closer to that origin of desire guarded by taboo and sartorial realities, the previous object of desire pales in comparison until the origin supersedes everything else and becomes the proper object of desire.

In contrast to this, consider how xxx unveils her self as disembodied feet, disembodied song, and disembodied words. Chance illuminations of a whole that shall forever remain inaccesible ad withdrawn. The curtains, the patterns on the floor, the window through which a hazy shadow of a creeper enters the room, her feet, slightly cracked and parched in patches. Each of them present themselves as wholly desirable, almost as if they were different realities in which my desire could be wholly subsumed.

I feel that this is a deterritorialised affair.