, where there is no need for this question, but a very great need for the bare, perhaps embarrassed, foot, unfettered of the unbearable shoe. I may be a charlatan and a swindler, a liar, a cheat and a thief, but I am still a gentleman. And being as I am and, independent of this being, absent of any mosque, I maintain the question "why?". Though I'm sure you've deduced by now that I'm among some great crowd of barefooted people, undoubtedly by myself--in some awkward pair of boots, you are mistaken, as so many of the metaphorically illiterate are. If you think, on the other hand, that this is some sort of metaphor, you should kill yourself for letting me lead you on. Perhaps then, you might say to yourself, this is just a bit of self-indulgent nonsense that passes itself off as meaningful prose. Here, too, you are mistaken. It is a simple fact that I am a gentleman and that I maintain the question "why." There is nothing more to it, other than your shame.
Shame is what grips the barefooted person, especially when caught unprepared for the kinds of realities that demand a shoe. This is why I like the ice. Though I feel betrayed by the very pavement that I've pounded with the certainty and eroticism that perhaps crosses a line, I will always love the ice for keeping those damnable hippies off the street and out of my bedroom.
Though I may slip, slide, fall, lose my balance, or be maimed by a collection of improperly labeled knives, I adore the ice for being so much like me. On the one hand it is cold, hard, and callous, on the other, ephemeral and frail: wholly dependent on its environment for its character. On yet another hand, its ability to gain control over thousands of pounds of car and to bring this to a crashing halt is something I must admire. On the last hand, I cannot emphasize enough how much I appreciate its effect on those damnable hippies.
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