Winds blow cold in the dawn of climbing. The hill before the morning steadies in veil while the townsfolk—they invented Plymouth Rock—their sleep is a pasture. The deeds of lurking and obsession still the rivers, rivals campaign. The hill is bare of knowledge, Cold in token. Death becomes the faction of seed while snow remains cold. No farmstead bursts into bloom tho burning homes are known. No one can see the hilltop now, only choices for a simple day. The language of this fits everyone, in testate and loss. The even stones become clear as words upon a bough. The hill is an afterthought of sunrise.
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