clients surrounded the test of words. they said tables are indefinite flames. they said topics are riled by sentences. they said, your third try will be marshland, a tuft of wind, blue smoke over green woods, and snow begins to fall. did we listen? I will tell you a story, and in that story, I will not appear. yet the story will occur in the sentence of one breath. this breath will be a whole universe, and drills made of stars. when you hear the story, Dear Reader, you will be provoked. effort will construct a breeze across the mentioned marsh. a melting sun will bloom from the seed of winter. this must be the simplest myth imaginable, you will whisper to yourself. your self won't listen, your self will read on. still, clients are not easily abetted, or even cleared for landing. I will tell you, tho, that the airplane crashed. it was beautiful. it felt like a casting off of doubt. with that inkling, you have more of the picture. don't worry, all passengers of the crashing plane were in another story. my picture contained a roundhouse blaze, a picture of mushrooms, a final quaking scent of lilies, then the universe turned useful again. the clients began to act. they couldn't explain the apparent effect of that story that I said I would tell. instead, they left it all to me.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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