I touched the dry softness of my grandmother's skin, and I will always remember it. I touched the cold ungivingness of my grandfather's dead flesh, and I will always remember it.

Every time I walk across the carpet in my bare feet, I dig my toes into the plushness of it, and love it. I press my cheek against the cold, damp glass, and whatever pain I felt, has passed.

I like to take the kernel of corn between my teeth, and bite down til its small heart pops out. I like to do the same with small green peas; to feel the snap of the thin, sweet skin.

The roughness of canvas, raw and unprimed. It's more than material, it's a call to creation and I discover elation there. The thick gloopyness of acrylic paint, as I swab it around, is mesmerising.

The whisper of raw silk, and lushness of velvet; the perfect skin of satin, and comforting warmth of flannel; the roughness of concrete under my toes; the slipperyness of milk that runs down my throat; the feel of hair under the water; the touch of warm hands of your lover.