There's a luxury to white that entices me.
Dare I wear a white sweater and eat carrot soup, or slurp saucy spaghetti, knowing as I do my clumsiness and white cotton's magnetic powers. It's tempting fate in a casual cottony kind of way.
Lush white towels - fluffy and broad - hang in my bathroom, but I fear sometimes to use them. Instead I wipe my face that might still have traces of mascara on the thread-worn yellow towel to the side, convinced that it's roughness is a good form of exfoliant.
A crisp white sheet of paper contains all the possibilities of the universe, the emptiness itself is an invitation. (I suppose I almost never write on paper made of cotton, but the possibility is just as present on tree pulp).
And bedsheets. Oh for the splendour of crisp white bed sheets, dried in the sun and fresh air, floating down over my body at bedtime.
One could never have nightmares on a bed like that.