I'm wearing Frankenstein shoes, W. says. The shoes only Frankenstein's monster would wear to hide his great, ugly feet. And my feet are great and ugly, W. says. And flat – as flat as the Fens. As flat as the salt lakes of Utah. – 'You've no arch!', says W.
His feet, by contrast, are superbly arched. He can walk quietly, disturbing no one, whereas I crash everywhere, disturbing everyone with my great, ungainly flippers.
That I don't try to hide them, my feet, by suitable shoes is a sign of my decadence, W. says. That I compound the error of my feet with the error of my crocs: my Frankenstein shoes, only shows how far I have fallen.
Lars Iyer's Blog 