above the road, and the desert, like the mosques and churches and temples in young settlements, tower the pylons, chains of them, the highest points for miles around. between their fingers run wires like nylon thread, a vast game of cat’s cradle. we do not think about them, but they power our houses, our light, our kitchens, hotels, hospitals, infrastructure, government, factories of war.
without them?
forget the rest, pretenders, here are His hands, here are the mouths that spread the word.


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