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Hot, cold, hail, lava, boils or locusts—it never mattered: the machine masturbated and we had to take it or die.
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Most of the time I thought of AM as it, without a soul; but the rest of the time I thought of it as him, in the masculine…the paternal…the patriarchal…for he is a jealous people. Him. It. God as Daddy the Deranged.
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The downdropping stalactites as thick and glorious as diamonds that had been made to run like jelly and then solidified in graceful eternities of smooth, sharp perfection.
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