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On a field on a Sunday, on the grass on the ground, there is a ball and a boy and a watch and a team and a coach and a game. Some will watch some will play some will cheer some will sigh, some will laugh some will shout some will talk in loud voices about strategy, some won't care. Everywhere there is participation, the parent that shouts the child that kicks the one that slips the guy with the watch the guy with the flag the guy with the power the guy in the center. Someone will win and someone will lose but there won't be anything resolved, and none of the participants play for resolution, they play to win, and to carry that emotion through their lives through their strolls and their goals and their caroling and cake-baking. More than the moment of victory, they play for control, to be controlled so that they may control, to be controlled so that their will might be free. They play in a system of time, in an understanding of the duration of judgement, in an understanding that time here is a tool, that time does not make them terminal, but rather, that time will make them a success. This is not a soccer field, this is a time machine, these are not children, these are Oracles, these are not lives, these are dreams.