They rain to literal, fit with facts. Hawthorne on the boat, Pond Lily, and the whispering half life of the Concord River resort to bright effects. A wind installed in the tucked duff beneath a serious tree settles a rabbit to its own personal marsh. Thought roomed for minutes with constant referral. Thoreau and his boat, Musketaquid, same boat as Hawthorne’s, and a trip to part of the world. Each part connects to a vocabulary. Hawthorne looked out the window of the Old Manse while the river eased its way. The landscape remained a process, with its own vocabulary. Treated as a vagary, each word resorts to distinction as a claim. Sunset bottled, then sunrise uncorked, or some metaphor between this history and your own. Picture that, said Thoreau, as Margaret Fuller, more like a countess now, drowned in homecoming.
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.
Comments