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74 Terrestrial My dog trots grass. Her way is the way of trotting grass, just as air’s the way of birds, the way of air-souls, of birds who die, becoming air. Try imagining a fish working hard to think of water! Creatures easily will do as they’re made to do. After college, I stopped saying world at the sight of my own blood, until I’m no one and his dog, as you are. Yet we may stalk as readers through this earth, each day a page spread out in cloud and building, tree or sand. And so I may be done at last: stretched from fear toward joy. ...

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