For Reb Derrida

The Foot Fetishists pay me compliments, just as I’m being swept away by the Fastitocalon. “I see you not, because you won’t let me,” I yell in high F. Xes come out of his mouth. “Is your love as white as a foaming sea?” I ask. The floater on ocean streams gives me the rainbow look, but I see him not. “Is your desire a statutory epiphany?” I cry for an answer. I’m ready to catch its vanishing point in the infinite. I hear Lyotard dictating: “there is a language without intention that requires not religion but faith.” I dip my pen into the deep ink ocean, and want to write "effigy" about edifying discourses. I misspell the first letter, as “I” writes itself in the flow. The Fastitocalon allows me to break him at “iff,” when I suddenly see him in the context of his ancient history. I glimpse the wisdom of the Aspidochelone. I fall in love with water letters thus and only thus.


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