They appear out of nowhere as if they know where all the doors are  between our dimension and where they are called  by their true name, are not the last survivors  of their evolutionary niche. Familiarity does not diminish  their curiosity, and even the great plain aligned to the grid of monoculture  is not monotony, which is painful to them,  but a regularity that gives value to change, and WTF is that  walking on the road? How annoying  to be drawn into another pointless encounter with me, they huff,  brandish their hardware and run,  entering a sublimity of motion that is like the sublimity of night.  A Gothic spirit loves accumulation, magic, a big-block V8  in a Dodge Polara, they feel inside themselves the soul of an extra gear  that will lift them from the earth, from the prairie’s hall of mirrors, the fences whitetail leap  that they must scrabble under, tearing their cloaks on the barbs.  Only their old-timey machinery can digest the rough forbs.  The jackrabbit finds peace in his evening hollow, deer fold themselves  in elegant anxiety upon their grass couches, but the pronghorn’s eye  has been widened in some back-room occult transaction and he haunts the open country, a candle in the five-mile corridor of his tenfold vision,  sleeping minutes at a time under the shaking rings of Saturn.

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