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August 17, 2013

Ours is a world without bearings; for the weather vane at its center has lost its own. No longer are we to know north from south or east from west, for the vane’s arms have been bent back on one another from a night of strong winds and now describe an arc rather than a heading, twisted as they are in a loose ball about themselves. So it is that wayfarers set out and lose themselves, for, as they advance, their northbound steps carry them first east, then west, and, not rarely, south. Faced with the futility of orientation, some turn back while others lie down on the path. Regardless, their fate is uniform, and only those who never leave live.

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