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17 de Grotesco Even though I live in the woods I am not a wolf. I know that this portrait requires a poetry somewhere between the music of Piazzola and Liszt. A single, elegant pelican between the water and your brow. As air is absorbed by plants, as the parody of art is beneath contemplating when we’re hungry, always I am haunted by the sad lying of interpersonal indifference. What if eternity is virginal? Who would be candid enough to approach it? Who would return to the non-ironic palisades of paradise and not be scandalized? (Here is a very blurry picture of me, naked—ridiculous!) Thus as with love we have to give ourselves. We have to marvel among oddities—swoop, and dive, and degenerate. ...

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