Long ago I noted that every woman has a form or shape that is repeatedly expressed, fractal-like, in all her features and at all levels of her, for lack of a better word, anatomy. Her forearm is the same as her nose which is the same as her clitoris which is the same as her thumb and calf.
It’s not just a physical thing; the form is no less explicit in her personality. Or perhaps it is her personality—her personality given physical expression.
Poetical exaggeration? Certainly. And yet when I cast my mind back, I see nothing but proof.
A man signs a shovel and so he digs.
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