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It can all seem so simple, these twenty two moving parts. Eleven on eleven, they violently mesh, or they fly apart. Some people look at this whole and perceive only a lumpen, tangled jumble. From orbit, the Amazon rainforest is reduced to a green carpet. A glance at the watch's face shows only two hands. A second's worth of recognition, then on to something else, the actual time already forgotten. On the watch's face is the hour. Behind that: gears, escapments, jewels. Under the green, jungle canopy: rivers, streams, lives, civilizations. Guttural cries, naked violence, and the necessary imbalance of the scoreboard are the most apparent facets of American football. Tribal, atavistic pleasures, occasionally waved off as simple things by and for simple minds. Motivating and informing it all, though, this. Twenty two individual goals made systemic by design; the moving parts of a machine imbued with a will and given a target. Put the parts together and see if the result is harmonic precision, or an expensive spray of ragged metal and oh dear, I seem to have a hairspring lodged in my cornea. That beer in your hand is more than just "a beer."
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