She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. “John, that is what you say now. Dizziness overcame him like anesthetic and he slept. Here they were regaled with another plentiful meal by the hospitable carpenter, who personally superintended the repast. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. The Idle Apprentice.
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