Weather’s last excellence provoked symbolism akin to tempo. Or totems, posing as thought. Why speak without mystery when the world is so small?
A new season is as old as the hills. These specific hills are where we watch vague neighborhoods extrude their people. Something simple seems so obvious, without a willing of weather on ‘a night like this’. Professor Radiant writes an exhaustive book.
Books have been known for years. We know characters like we know our left ventricle. We know narrative like placing dull coins in our close hands. The theme is mother.
Professionals radiate an energy that presumes knowledge that survives words. Beyond muttering and beyond cogent purpose, our rasping surveys the lichen on a rock somewhere. We were there once, apparently.
Professor Radiant has been scholar and intricate haven for ideas. At the risk of totality, the Professor lifts Jacob’s ladder for electrical insight. The movie won’t be known for years.
In the written word unwritten ones engage the net. The net stimulates the imagination. Something will be shaken, and the process will resolve.
An ordinary day has ordinary weather. The hay gatherers near Stonehenge prepare for yet another day in time. Such did Professor Radiant determine.