was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at my feet. I looked at them thoughtfully. Their paleness, their delicacy—the fine shapeliness…toes spread out, naturally, like live fingers, not like the dead, deformed flesh of other toes. The transparent skin, the veins showing. Feet whose tread is assuredly light… My father’s feet. And the first time I looked at some fragment of his body without the mist of fear, of awe. His feet. I have only been able to take into myself his feet. I possess them. They are real. Everything else is a dream, a vague dream of soft skin, of vigourous sensuality,
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