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Maybe I'm Crazy, But . . .
October 03, 2003, 5:26 p.m. I love eggs. The beholding of, not the eating of (although I like that too, but that’s not what I’m talking about here). I love the shape, the way it curves so gently. I love the promise and the ideas intimated by that shape; the new life and the fecundity of it. I love the feel of it in my hand, how delicate and fragile it is, and the subtle weight of it. I adore the different characters of the shells – some pink and refined (pampered princesses), some brown and speckled (earthy and good humoured). When the shell is cracked, and the orange yolk slops out, like a tiny little sun, a life-source, I love that too. Even the word ‘egg’, my eye dotes on, running over it with relish and slow ardour. The sound of it, I play again and again in my head, my mouth silently forming the shape of it, and I delight in it, the way the back of my tongue meets the roof of my mouth to make the ‘g’. I love eggs.
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