Dry dry dry

I dry my hands at the hand dryer in the washroom of the beautiful Math-Phys building in Malostranske square.

The dryer is heaven. It isn't one of those useless anemic dryers that dribbles cold air like a baby dribbles spittle-- it's got a nice strong blower that shoots out air like a warm stream of love. I love washing my hands now- I love drying them. Maybe I leave my hands there too long. Who does it hurt?

It feels so good, and when I finally pull them out, my hands have that fresh, just-out-of-the-dryer smell.