Creation limps to see the sea. It’s a lot of trouble. Verbs work, okay, and nouns mean something solid. Then adjective colours the spaces between and around solid. Adverbs declaim the speed, tho our presidential discoveries may not know this. I heard a preposition once, going towards, I think (a tree was involved). In Lowell, Massachusetts, literary punctuation mark, and historical byway, there were attempts at language. Mainly some factories, a river, and canals. We hear these instant things, furrows of effort, and Charles Ives looks at Aaron Copland. Less saturated is the sentence, when you carefully place the period at the end. The end must be indicated because ideas are formal institutions. Like slavery, and stuttering function of the griping class. Creation begins to see paragraphs, rewards of effort. Stanzas are paragraphs, make no mistake, just as the moon circles aimlessly while clouds obscure the facts. In Lowell, steeples fulfill the promise of skyline for a while. The tenor of some rot and buildings works into dismal demonstration of economic means severed by a few human beams. Their light wasn’t little more than. Under that bridge rushes important water over stony riverbed, with eager power developed from how that mass in motion translates into the firm belief in system. Electrify me, says Lowell, staunch for the bucket filled to a brim described by our betters. Someone plugs in the refrigerator and Budweiser fills the temporary home. Meanwhile, creation limps to the sea, like a plain book or a bowl of porridge set adrift with mentioning. This casting about, with words featured in every remark (almost), constitutes a property of which we are an element.
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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