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The world is round, said Eratosthenes. And so it appears, I suppose, from far away, though I've never been
there to see it. Down here the world has edges.
Out beyond the city limits, over the next ridge and just past where
the map gets fuzzy, the world falls away as waterfalls once did
from the end of the flat-Earth ocean.
The edges are everywhere.
You reach an edge when your faint, sandy trail dissolves into
a tangle of desert sage. There's an edge just short of the windswept
ghost town, the weed-tangled railroad spur, the fabulous gold mine
drifted with dust and choked with the rot of an empty century.
The unknown and silent weed-walled hollow beside the concrete creek
through the garbage-choked alleys of a faceless, endless asphalt city,
is just on the other side. Edges are place where you go but they
don't.
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