The macilent flight of the fox-headed man

Despite her aspect, and her dress, fox-headed man is* a male

a malo

... And: do you see it?
¿Veslo?

Standing on his/her islet made of  the topographic defrostings, fox-headed man examines the horizon from this side of the English Channel, all-dressed in red, like a heroine from the Victorian era.
Probably the fox-headed man arrived there pursued or harassed by the man-headed men?

Or by the insupportable levity of being, or by the wind that blew too brusquely, or by the gorillas that dwell in London, UK, or by the El Hombre Gato? Or by, or by, or by...

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Peter Pan pans pancakes in a pan and gets panned by Pan, god of pantomime, panettoni and pan-americanism, while a pangful pangolin with panic observes the panification of Pannonia from his panopticon: on his panel, fox-headed man, pansexual, panagglutinable, pánfilo, he devours panzarotti like Pantagruel in Panama but his pancreas pandiculates like the pandura of Sancho Panza: 

Aaaaaghhhh??


Here! Here!
How, how comes that the window is opening its flaccid labia minora in blue espanto, now, exactly when at your home-womb is 2:oo:oo:oo:oo P.M?
What does that window want with fox-headed man? He is an abortion of nature, but that's not a reason to hassle him

but there's no-thing to do: the God of Osrael hates fox-headed men, wherever they are, and so here comes the celestial persecuta:

le ciel at night gets opened and a hand of whale appears through the window, catching fox-headed man by her scrotum aka pelotas and taking him in mega-accelerated kosmische travel through the hardsoft air of the stratosfear

a ride direct-direct to be scared to death by God himself face to face into the deep and nucturnul azure of the space [because in the space we are night all the time, and also we are winter all the time].

The astral periplus is long for fox-headed man, and her testicles are already stalactites and stalagmites
but he goes on, and on, and still on, flying through the sideral halls, observed by the peeled skeletons of dead astronomers floating in space, monitored by disconnected satellites, beheld by the oscillation of the distant and obliquitous Earth?

And yet even more and more profound into the abysmal screen of the Universe fox-headed man goes, volant, semi-frozen in his red suspender belts of primavera... no one observes him anymore already, too deep into that black expanse

everything and everybody was left behind, heading for the most recondite angles of the unfathomable, head first the fox-headed man, she, who dared to do... all he could.

 "And is never going to end this esoteric flight?" "Toward?"

... And as these bitter questions pass through the brains of fox-headed man in his self-airlift to the infinite, an obscure Russian astronaut sees her flying-by... from a distance that could be counted in miles and miles, a so-called Ilya Chechile watches her/him through the egg-shaped window of his spacecraft

and the cosmonaut takes fox-headed man for a shooting star, or a space phantasm.

_____________________________
I couldn't revelate if the macilent flight of fox-headed man ended one day

if his preternatural voyage was sempiternal or human::: the goal of a travel toward the God cannot be seen but by its protagonist

in certain moment my eyes acquired the color of the sky violet, and I lost the least trace of his universal peregrination.

All we have is a travelogue, and the travelogue says:

"After any interstellar journey, always there are sordid thenceforths."




































*Present, past and future are an imprecise yoghurt.
































The macilent flight of the fox-headed man.