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  • In Yorkshire, where I come from, rocks are everywhere. You have to hop over them, scramble up them, negotiate them. It's a land of rock. The walls are made of rocks, loosely but expertly piled together. No cement or mortar. Lichen forms. The landscape settles into itself like a baby going to sleep. People - what people there are - make their way through Yorkshire like adults tiptoeing through the bedroom of a sleeping child.

    Rock lasts longer than us.
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