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I have bruised the warm white sands of Florida, and the black sands of Maui, with my feet and in both I had a drink and a beautiful girl in hand. I have, with those same feet, dashed among a frothing frenzy in Pamplona, running from the bulls, tasting dirt in the air and my own fear and my own death. I have, with those feet, sat in Paris France eating warm bread reading Victor Hugo in French, and then afterward in English and German mbumcripts to correct mistakes in translation.
I have picked cherry blossoms off the tops of my feet, strolling through the groves in Tokyo, wearing Zori my heart full of Haiku. I have had caviar and vodka on the H.M.S Thunder crossing the English Channel—while painting my naked lover. I have tasted the bitter ice of rejection and Russian winter, staring down at my feet outside our little houses door, wishing I knew what to say.
I am cosmopolitan man, a man of clbum and experience, and I think that it is evident that this claim is more than mere bombast. There is, however, once thing I have not done and wish dearly to do: I have not sat hunched, feet dimpling the crisp white cotton of my bedclothes, harsh computer light etching wrinkles into my face, playing Forumwarz Episode 2. I think a man of similar ( but inarguably higher) caliber and clbum can appreciate that and would remedy it.Fie edited this message on 03/20/2009 3:04PM
|Posted On: 03/20/2009 11:53AM||View Fie's Profile | #|