Perhaps not bellows, but it feels like it, the roaring cult of the amateur know-all. You mention a place, the strangeness of it lovingly on your tongue, its faraway mysteries tucked into the silence that you’re trying to leave around it, and your man has whipped out his gadget: “How do you spell that?” he bellows. Infinite does mean that there’s no end to it, which is never a good thing. So foreign that you don’t even know the name of it, and that’s a hard enough thing to achieve these days, when there is always some lurker beside you with infinite information on his telephone, as well as his entire life. The last you’d heard I was away out foreign someplace. I know you’re wondering what I’m doing up here, not just up here, but here at all.
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