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Preferences Antarctica is no place for the eye that loves a mesh of interlacing, knot of growth. The plain truth oversimplifies the human state. The southern senses set a trap of fictions: stick and wire to stir up single-minded nature, complicate the unanimities of cool with fur and fine desires. The draftsman tolerates no unassuming page, but goes about unearthing all its bones; the ink insists on fibulas and femurs, none without the knob of trouble's ends, the double kiss that terminates the clean sweep of the shaft. The belly of a hill has got a fault of birth corkscrewing inside out; the craft of architects can make a skulling vault out of a fever of ideas or tilework of details, and listeners warm to the song when wildnesses are made to cool, to scale. The heart's two-timing, thicketed and wron^ but reason doesn't simply make us single. In the woodland latitudes we grow to love the shrub's uplifted etch and tangle over the amnesias of snow. 96 ...

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