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24 The Soul farmer In the beginning, with only a few acres of humans to care for, god planted each soul by hand, but over time, as his business grew, he got more and more removed from the day-to-day of his enterprise. Now he reclines in a celestial hammock, nibbling meteors like intergalactic hors d’oeuvres, star clusters glittering like martini glasses. His migrant angels oversee his humanoid crop, plucking us as we ripen. Ah, the rich taste of a tormented soul properly marinated in experience. The messages pile up on his prayer machine. Centuries since he’s repainted the sky. ...

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