Glassy-eyed, Fishbag screams into the heavens that it’s the Notion of Shoes that has ceased our forward progress into an age of possibilities where the sun shines on the ideas of the truly touched and gleams off the downy blonde hair of lovers embraced while the fires burn dictionary red and persimmon orange in the background.
He screams that it’s the Notion of Shoes at the heart of all our failures, every single fucking one of them, and why the paintings in the museums seem so muddled and devoid of any keen insight or high-cheekboned swagger nowadays.
We’ve been sealed in airless boxes made of the flesh of every baby girl ever drowned in the Yangtze River. Thanks to the Notion of Shoes, these boxes now crash violently into each other as we try to reach out for even the slightest sense of comfort or community, and like mimes we weep at our loss of connection and our inability to touch.
The Notion of Shoes is what semantically keeps us from actually communicating with each other as it dulls the soft tug of a woman’s full lips as they brush gently on our backs in the early morning’s haze and the pungent stench of gasoline.
He screams all this into the star-struck blackness above, standing in these woods, his arms pinwheeling as if propellers on a plane dropping food and medical supplies on yet another camp full of starving refugees, his bare feet black in the snow, and we, with our heavy eyes and fleece-lined boots, watch huddled by the fire, shivering in the cold.
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