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     //  Hermeneutics and Love

    I wept opprobriously when, as a child, I first witnessed a rooster, my rooster, killed in a cockfight. He didn’t die immediately, the long blades tied below his opponents’ spurs having failed to puncture anything so vital as an organ. Instead he lay panting, covered in blood and sweat. He blinked occasionally. His body was hot from the activity but mostly limp. What seemed so clear to me, at that moment, and what my older brother, watching me from the side, failed to recognize, was that this beautiful friend had exhausted his entire being for me.

    My older brother often reminds me that I was a sensitive child; A perfectly ambiguous statement, simultaneously an off-handed explanation of my affair with the arts and a well-crafted exoneration of his cruelty towards me. I was, after all, so sensitive.