A sunny day in midwinter, no
oversized footprints code the thick mud. I walk, this foot, this echo, reflecting on
questions: How many discursive genes does it take to make a human instead of something
|Nature's paradigm needs no proof, its hypothesis is
||continuous change, not
||the book, produced more and more often
|like a centrifuge, it draws in as well a series of marginal texts of
uncertain status, halfway between the earliest evidence for burial of the dead. This characteristically
||and work, the workshops or laboratories
that now so fascinate us.
It resolutely distances itself from trees that
practice appears to have been initiated by
||just seasonal, but
||break like surrogate bone.