![]() Ah, what a paper tower, full of papers, with bells, and do we ever love bells, those of us that are this way! Well, let me not over-generalize. It fancied itself to be a journal and who knows, perhaps it was. You on this Saint Valentine’s Day, day of lovers, you who are standing there, so handsome, so solidary, so close to the tower, so close to the featherless faggot, so ready to fly over the tower, to reclaim it, paint it, manhandle it, respect it, plant it, love it, kiss it, so phallic the tower, but not for that reason less majestic, democratic or Socratic. What a dream! A superhuman faggot, as if a Nietzchean, Foucaultian, Derridian, Simone de Bouvoirian, Rosario Ferreian, Talia Cuervian, Manuel Ramos Oterian, Mayra Santos Febrian, Angel Lozadian thing, confusedly and contradictorily Martin Luther King Junioran, Mahatma Gandhian, Malcolm Xian, just like saying: you are mine. ![]() The faggot was not a superhero, as much as he’d like. He would have loved to scale the tower like Spiderman or Superman but he was afraid after hearing the news about the Broadway musical in which all of the actors flew and fell on the ground as if injured birds, defeathered, poorly flown our flying superhero. ![]() Ah, what a faggot! He did not prance or fly. And so it happened that one day a faggot stood in front of a tower.
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