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19 The Consequentialist I. In the pulse between syllables and with the gold sheen of the flesh, time is given. Taken for what it is going forward and back, he stirs the indefinite, a reminder of something the ear reserves for the quietist moments. While rubbing the stone his grandmother called chalchihuitl, heart jewel made to protect and ensure resurrection, he confides to his friend—he’s already come back, but this time, first instructed by “the god of flames” to find only the good consequences, to believe in justice, stay neutral. II. The world’s cruelty has failed. He watches his mind’s boat take one kindly turn after another, throttle and shift, pivoting slowly toward the exuberant willow. 20 III. Today, his fingertips run softly across his friend’s shoulders and back to the beauty mark pressed up against her collar— black pearl amid the falling lemon blossoms. Thyme grows wild all around. He pours the roasted chá mate from out of a hollowed gourd, refuses argument with the world. ...

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