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26 XII goldsworthy arranges daises, a meditation in the crook of the stream with all the awe of the Neanderthal burying their dead. The water takes the gift. Is this how you get fish to make butter? I remember every detail of everything my father inflicted on me to erase his fear of loving me. I walk the stations of that pain with all the relish of a self-flagellating monk. I know something of pilgrimage. ...

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