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F. J. Bergmann
Cadastral
Turn right and our world is a sphere. Turn left, and the road is
flat, stretching forever toward an illusory horizon. You turn left,
and start walking along the shoulder, in case cars come by. But they
never do. Eventually you catch up with other walkers, kicking up
blue dust, briskly marching toward infinity. Some of them have
hiking boots, backpacks, and maps with one straight line. Those who
don’t have water bottles, granola bars, or shoes that fit watch the
ones who do. Some of them have change for the vending machines when
they get where they’re going.
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