There's a love poem by Pablo Neruda called, Your Feet. It is simplistic in nature; observing and paying homage to the beauty found in the everyday, romantic but not to cliched.
Most people think the foot is an atrocious-looking thing - sometimes they look bent, or squished. Some people have remnants of nail polish from last summer; some more susceptible to rock-hard heels that create Mt. Deadskin during visits to the pedicurist. Some feet have a whole head of hair.
Neruda wrote:
"...But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me."
As summer approaches with its artillery of heat and stank, the feet, if not bound by the airy straps of flip flops, will begin to sweat. It's true.
More often than not, when you attend a public screening of something - a show, movie, or performance - there's always that one person who's out there to give you the good ol' heebeegeebees. I've encountered a few of these in my time.
There's the man with the coughing fit sitting next to you with the inability to close his mouth. You can see his spit, flying out of his mouth. Even worst still if the cough is coming from behind you because then you know, the spit's landing on your head.
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