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And so his royal Duffleleupagus is seized with the megalomaniacal conceit that he is the contemporary Jesus, the man wandering through the lives of these forlorn people, beaten and broken down by the unbearable thirst of relative deprivation--unless it was all of capitalism, or terrorism, or loneliness, or time. Of course, to compare oneself to Jesus is at least ridiculous, and yet not uninspired extreme narcissism, and although he cannot remember reading it symptomatic of a particularly overt form of latent homosexuality, he could not say for sure he had not read that either. On a cereal box top or as fortune cookie filler? Svevo or Zizek? Soft-core porn spam or in freshman composition?
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