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57 Human Inventory And what of human inventory? Suppose there’s some catalog in the basement of the New York library. Slip and trip, over the keeper of some record of our double helix, meant to fix our borderlessness. And have you seen it? It contains the lipids of your life, a virtual blueprint —the lint of your look at the nearly breasted 13-year-old girl, the mold under your son’s fingernails, the fall of your first marriage. Scrolling over your arms and legs—you quit the trombone; you are tone deaf, correct? You cheated in chess; you questioned the use of a slide rule. Someone saw you. And in wide sweeps, you move up and down the rungs of the DNA ladder, the win, the whittling—hoping ultimately that your missteps will not matter. yes, you do hear things—that’s the ticking of the tab— and the consequences will rage in your child’s sea. ...

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