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57 Enlightenment He traveled beneath the skimming net of the night sky. He let moss smooth the cedar-root snare. At the top of a mountain, a god took his beating head for its heart: the lice no longer controlled his hands—put them on his head and on his crotch; but I am translating poorly, now, and they are gesturing with their hands; and by the end of the night, I begin to wonder if they are, who they say they are: the incarnations of little gods, needing food and money to pass through this world remembering me; now one of them is laughing, at a moment I do not understand laughing too hard, I think, for kindness. ...

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