So
the chicken head man turns to the naked dog foot lady and says, “I’ve searched
high and low, cruised all the haunts and hangouts for the perfect naked dog
foot lady--and voila, here you are.”
And in all her naked dog foot splendor, she looks at him with fish hooks in her
eyes, smiles sheepishly, and says, “One moment I’m so low I could flush my
head. And another moment I’m so high I could climb the highest mountain and all
that crap. I’m teetering over the maw of despair, tottering on the precipice of
joy. Hey, look at those tiny little orange spiders! I feel like one of those
tiny orange spiders, so tiny, so orange, so fast, so utterly without purpose.”
Chicken head man and the naked dog foot lady leave this place together, holding
hands, spitting kisses at one another, and as they disappear into the swarm of
the city, they know, chicken headed, dog-footed, clothed and naked together,
how freakish, how much like tiny orange spiders they must seem to the world.
And they laugh at this, pave their own way, once more with feeling.
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