The tribal long
grasses of firm autumn pre-describe an initial point. Valid in most
states, formless in function, they prepare the user for the diversity
of offense. Winter bears no questions, violet iceberg. Today starts
the endless aptitude test with variant rugs on the cursive floor.
This is becoming language, tho we regard ourselves as sane. Accept
the natural loss of poised sentences, words can’t employ meaning in
this need. Words have only dental notes of identity, cooperating
justly with the affluently dead ideas on which they were based. We
can elect all we want. A tribe still needs a blank page whereby
actual constructs of logical impetus tell lizard the time of day.
This time of day is lame.
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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