Thru Brockton to the foundation of Apple software, and the bendy parts of our natural concern. A bend in the turn to Brockton for tea amongst liberal tame people produces a surge in patterns of liking. A jog thru Brockton while tons fall hard remains a desperate plea for attention. A test in Brockton before a call to arms insists on second nature. Arms replies.
A floating rhythm of particulars accepts words that describe them. Classic investigation stops at the front door. There may be human remains, someday.
A poem is part of the functioning of the network filling space. Space is the final incompatible idea, and it remains in Brockton. Apple software and the planet it makes just sighs, in space. Space is a time before sometime soon.