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They rode on. They rode like men invested with a purpose whose origins were antecedent to them, like blood legatees of an order both imperative and remote. For although each man among them was discrete unto himself, conjoined they made a thing that had not been before and in that communal soul were wastes hardly reckonable more than those whited regions on old maps where monsters do live and where there is nothing other of the known world save conjectural winds. They
by Cormac McCarthy
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The riders moved forward with a sense of deep purpose, one that seemed to transcend their individual identities. They each embodied their own unique traits, yet together they formed a powerful collective, akin to heirs of an ancient and commanding legacy. This unification gave rise to a new entity, one that had never existed before, echoing an instinctual drive that guided them onward through the unknown.

As they journeyed, their collective presence hinted at vast, uncharted territories reminiscent of the blank spaces on old maps, where legends of monstrous creatures and the mysteries beyond the known world reside. This blend of camaraderie and individuality allowed them to traverse the wilderness, embodying both the spirit of adventure and the weight of existential uncertainty.

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Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West
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