Granted I believe in the dialectics, of which I know nothing about. I also like that author, whom I've read about in magazines. Finally, if a little girl was to give me a shaved corpse, I would have to say to her, "No thank you. I like the hair." Who will deflower me when I have these abominably high standards?

I trust, too, that if the kingdom of grapes and feet and wines offered me taste, I would have to decline politely. "It is not out of spite that I refuse you, oh ambassadors of fine liquid satiations; rather, I'm fresh out of love, and would not want my cheeks to lie in merry blush." I would turn my back on the fauns' flutes, on the perked breasts of the young centaurs, who are so very talented at crushing grapes.
I would trudge my way to a teary respite in a manhole.

Then, the bombs would drop, the heads would bow. Would I look up? Would you? Perhaps that was underhanded, but perhaps you should answer the question.