“We are stardust,” Cedar is singing. “We are golden.” All of us—we really are! Just a skyful of fourteen-billion-year-old stars that collapsed and supernova-ed their way into our cells via comets and Shakespeare and Chief Tecumseh and whoever all else ever lived and died and decomposed and became human again. And then one day Edi—and the rest of us too, of course—will become something else, someone else. Worms and soil, then a plant, a seed head, maybe, a loaf of bread, a piece of toast, the very stuff of somebody’s bones and flesh. And long after, when the earth bursts apart, maybe we become
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