Throughout history, many famous and important people have had navels. Spiro
Agnew, Eldridge Cleaver, "Beatle" George Harrison, Princess
Di and Gangus Khan are among those on the list, though there are
many more. Even people in achient times, such as
Socrates, who was a philosopher in Greece or France like a billion years
ago, often shared this trait. My favorite navel, though, belongs to the
woman I live, belongs to Janelle.
A tiny impression in the flat plain that is her stomach, Janlle's
is not your every day dime-a-dozen navel. It is a dainty and gentle chasm,
as if her umbilical cord was not removed by doctors, but by angels from
heaven employing magical tools of like gold and silver. Most people's navels
are merely random dents that mysteriously appear in their gut. Janelle's
on the other hand, seems to have a purpose to it's existance. Appon seeing
such a navel, one is carried to a land of bliss, surrounded by melodious
choirs singing the fourth movement from Beethoven's ninth symphony. it
is a land that's bounderies are only that of Janelle's bellybutton.
Much like Jean Val Jean in Les Miserables, or Christina Crawford
in Mommie Dearest, I too sometimes contemplate my existance. What
I find is a vast nothingness, which is the true essence of Janelle's navel.
That crevis, chisled in her flesh, in reality, is a null as vast as the
void of the universe.