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Miracles. Events with astronomical odds of occurring, like oxygen turning into gold. I've longed to witness such an event, and yet I neglect that in human coupling, millions upon millions of cells compete to create life, for generation after generation until, finally, your mother loves a man: Edward Blake, the Comedian, a man she has every reason to hate, and out of that contradiction, against unfathomable odds, it's you — only you — that emerged. To distill so specific a form, from all that chaos; it's like turning air into gold. A miracle. Now dry your eyes, and let's go home.
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