You change in the town, and the town changes for you, said a person cultured green with the envious season approaching. The world sparkles with the simplest demands, which will be spoken of. The world of Worcester specifically, with its mountainous people, its lacustrine highways, its specious and spacious wariness of all catalogues and diligence, this world of being starts to control the outlay of song. Pressures build buildings of weight, that tower more than 5 stories high, even as the sky topples into averages. The people, underneath, bluster about condition as they read the details. This is the course of empire. From one fat city to one fat forest, and in between, a few shocks and divergences. We are required to read the news, and fall from our chair, and open a system, and pull our little boat ashore. It may work as we study our hopes. Colours speak season, season sparks us. Meanwhile, information roots into everything we do. Measurement is possible throughout the system.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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