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Man trods upon his feet, that is true. And also woman. She also trods upon her feet and in turn is trod upon by the feet of man, but it is a gentle trodding, a trodding not physical but spiritual, it leaves marks upon not the body but the eternal spirit, a trodding that joins the base function of the foot, the foundation of man in all his revealed majesty, as pure spirit and not mere wearer of comfortable footwear or patron of various foot-powders and ointments. But what are these ointments, if not a salve, a momentary break from the plane of existance where one's feet might hurt, hurt like the dickens after walking aimlessly around the East Village in +90 degree heat, anachronistically so, but being such not less real, real than this quotidian existance from which meaning must be wrenched through sheer force of will, or a crowbar, meaning that can be seized, ravished, by a mere glimpse of some other soul's feet, be they freckled, veiny, or coarse in some yet-to-be-determined fashion, but still, because of the true essence of feet, that juncture between body, earth and spirit, can momentarily bridge the dark abyss between souls. |
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