clients surrounded the test of words. they said tables are indefinite flames. they said topics are riled by sentences. they said, your third try will be marshland, a tuft of wind, blue smoke over green woods, and snow begins to fall. did we listen? I will tell you a story, and in that story, I will not appear. yet the story will occur in the sentence of one breath. this breath will be a whole universe, and drills made of stars. when you hear the story, Dear Reader, you will be provoked. effort will construct a breeze across the mentioned marsh. a melting sun will bloom from the seed of winter. this must be the simplest myth imaginable, you will whisper to yourself. your self won't listen, your self will read on. still, clients are not easily abetted, or even cleared for landing. I will tell you, tho, that the airplane crashed. it was beautiful. it felt like a casting off of doubt. with that inkling, you have more of the picture. don't worry, all passengers of the crashing plane were in another story. my picture contained a roundhouse blaze, a picture of mushrooms, a final quaking scent of lilies, then the universe turned useful again. the clients began to act. they couldn't explain the apparent effect of that story that I said I would tell. instead, they left it all to me.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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