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 else?

Nature's paradigm needs no proof, its hypothesis is  continuous change, not the book, produced more and more often
by life
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
  human practice appears to have been initiated by just seasonal, but break like surrogate bone.
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