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137 THE ORIGINAL DEED Scrolling darkness blurs the letter of the stars to luck to illegible text except for one direction struck across the page; the dotted line across the bottom sky, a distant highway whose signature is ours, is human more claim than covenant. The first we’d ever really seen The Milky Way, Dick woke us from the sleeping bags all nervous, “Something’s different.” “Dick,” we said, “the earth turns and we look out at different stars from the different places. We ride, it moves past and over us.” We went back to sleep. Dick saw the Native come to see our sleeping just as he woke; we all found scorpions warming under us when we packed up, though none of us was stung. That highway we saw last night was the one we had tried for a shortcut to across the desert on these bikes. The failed attempts of creation are going to run across themselves or some self not themselves and not quite recognize themselves and not quite realize they’ve come across success, come across the last step which may be ghosts of them. ...

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