mark1 wrote on Sep 6th 2002, 13:46:16 about
wet
Rating: 6 point(s) | Read and rate text individuallywet – surf like a glass mountain falling slowly and forever into itself. Like gods walking on water, temporary but there all the same
| Amount of texts to »wet« | 27, and there are 26 texts (96.30%) with a rating above the adjusted level (-3) |
| Average lenght of texts | 193 Characters |
| Average Rating | 0.333 points, 13 Not rated texts |
| First text | on May 2nd 2000, 01:18:57 wrote jann about wet |
| Latest text | on Aug 14th 2007, 09:20:26 wrote Werner about wet |
| Some texts that have not been rated at all
(overall: 13) |
on Oct 11th 2001, 04:47:35 wrote
on Feb 9th 2001, 19:51:50 wrote
on Aug 13th 2007, 17:29:33 wrote |
Random associativity, rated above-average positively
Texts to »Wet«
Boy in the bubble wrote on May 13th 2007, 12:28:17 about
wet
Rating: 1 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
I wake up in the morning and immediately realise I'm wet again. It's warm and not all that unpleasant. There's the safety of my plastic pants. I listen. The house is all quiet still, it must be very early. Would I dare to.... unspoken longing, I don't even think it out in full. It's bad. Or is it? I'm wet anyway, I'm going to be found out again. There's no escape. Bedwetter! Bedwetter!! So why not enjoy it while the going is good? And suddenly the hot wetness spreads out inside my plastic pants, soaking the terry, flowing down my skinny boy's body, warming my bottom and tummy and everything inside my plastic pants, my safety, my saviour, it flows, how soft is the warm plastic now, it flows, it flows, it seems to flow forever. I'm Bedwetter, I'm Pisspants. I'm wet and I don't care. I'm wet and I love it.
Yet, vague guilt. I'll stop doing it when I'm fourteen, promise, but that's still a month away. For now, I'm just happy. There's that big smile on my face. I can feel it, and fall asleep again.
sara the mac wrote on Aug 3rd 2000, 05:01:16 about
wet
Rating: 1 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
the apparition of these faces in the window:
petals on a wet, black bough.
-- ezra pound
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