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Summary
Yusef walks onto a field and the grass sings in time to the drumbeat of the bases, and each pitch thrown resonates and sings out until it becomes a strike or a hit, and every footstep feeds into the rhythm, and the tree bark echoes with the sounds of the fans’ cheers and the bats sing their own cadenzas, and it all blurs and blends into something lovelier and bigger than they can understand.
But Immateria doesn’t echo.
(On Yusef, elsewhere, and divine harmony.)
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YUSEFFFFFF