A perilous idea: "All can be processed. As in a combine, the wheat will go to the hopper, the straw into the field, the chaff away to choke my unbelieving friends." (did I just say that?!) The wheat field is the world as we know it, the combine our processing, always susceptible to the mess of chaff and straw and stubble. I'd rather a scythe and cottage, enough to feed my soul and family, disturbing little enough to know what's chaff and know it blows away. Wheat -- I need it; a scythe, I suppose. Life, trying to live it.
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