Love is such a fresh wind, an eastbound train back to the planting place. They knew it could, we know it can. Struggle with the effort, in green symbols to the waste of winter. Worcester,Massachusetts, the mountain of human endeavour near lake front properties, good fishing, and endless toil. Crying out battles of land holding, usual massacre elements, structures of demotic thought in the languages used to make distance: these are prime movers, eternal relays. Where is the best if west is left out? England, or utter Europe, or any other claim. Yet what wattage of fear, feeling stretched to maximum, without the apportionment of love squared then squared again? Curious necessities remain, which dictate a peace that infringes on peace. This betokens a war, and it seems redolent of some faction, fracture, or fair flower. Our love, nonetheless, remains. Strange, true, and declared, with simple gestures as the precision of the realm. Something needful inveighs against the details while lauding their practicality. People remain people, thru out their induction.
The True History: The Indians and the settlers didn't know it but they were merely living out the whole horrible Schopenhauerian fatalism of things. Nobody wanted Worcester to exist. The hostility of the natives is clear, as too the willingness of the settlers to turn and run. It wasn't worth it. Back to Boston! Everybody has the same reaction. People are trying to kill you, so you flee to Boston for safety.
Pure products deliver. After effects contain the first clumsy galaxy, and sunshine falls on Worcester.
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