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[impure_tale]

My sweet fellow denizens, I have been entirely too moody of late -- sufficient enough to make an old pervert quite nostalgic. Enough so that recording my exploits in these new standard journals has become especially distasteful to me. There's a certain element of the art that is lost -- the succulent red of the ink, every sharp tip or gentle curve

Comments

[empirical_data]

[The android knows who he is, and knows many cultures that write on skin, and yet, somehow, that positronic brain-to-mouth filter ceases to function.] ...Skin... sir?

[impure_tale]

Oui.

[empirical_data]

...oui.

[It is the smallest, tiniest, most modesty protocolled "oui" in the world, that "oui".]

[impure_tale]

Curious, monsieur?

[empirical_data]

It seems that a number of responses have presented themselves, but none seem adequate. [It's fortunate that he can't blush, because he would be beet red right then.]

[impure_tale]

Why are they inadequate?

[empirical_data]

I suppose I am, though in my pursuit of technical curiosity based in an artistic mindset my sense of... ah... modesty is making my ability to maneuver around specific questions extremely difficult.