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From the vistas of the Hut he knew that the world was large and contained “multitudes.” And the multitudes have multiple lives and interact a multiplicity of ways. It was always a painful brain experience. “Live,” the old woman told him in the kitchen, “in front of you, not in wide circumferences. The circumferences are merely for added information so you may live well in front of you.” He couldn’t answer her. She had a point. But he had reduced the scope of his knowing to the country of his birth even though he couldn’t relate to three-quarters of it. Yet, it was there and every year mounted every year until there was a sulpheric pile of things and odd people. “My things, my people, no?” Maybe not. But yes, he had family ties with them all and had studied local predictability of human nature and knew that patterns were iterate, in fact, he happened to live in a much more spontaneous place than the vast regions of his country so it was far easier to grasp the predictable nature of “those on the otherwise of the mountains.”
He could not identify with the natural systems of the planet but he saluted their superiority and hoped they would not give out before he did. Where would it stop? If one identified with the natural systems they would have to venture far out into the natural processes of the universe and eventually would become nothing but string or mass. Their sense of time and space would put them at odds with everyone they came into contact with; would perhaps create way too much trouble than it was worth. No, identity along those lines had consequence.
“But you live here, in the Hut,” she told him. “What else do you need?”
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