Trees were creamed by the partition called light snow. It set the tone for the day: a reliable call to duty, a putty-like religion. The nation, known as ours tho monstrous in its indispose, frittered in the panic of another day old bread. They who marched or looked likely congregated and met glances. It was a rife-toned phlegm coughed vigourously as part of the chilly season. The wind was named Frore, since the situation was special. We have made our verbs count, said one of the throng. Later, a debate grew looser. George W Bush, the second rug on the same floor, brushed up on brushing down. Welladay, the nouns are in charge! There were piebald ponies, strict reasoned clown faces, pounce remains of marching bands, and the hawk of all gritty effort, all for the radical day. We are better, mayhap, now, having spent our last ounce, with adverbs trailing weakly. Who needs the discussion of density, when the electron we trust will not register its place? There is this person, Barack, and his wife, Michelle. They represent the perimeter of incoming influence. Electrons trail behind, and the children of these electrons, and the days Harvard meant something, and more, so much more. The book (flock of geese marching into the wind) is almost potion. Drink is enabled but, you know, Washington is a realm of cherry trees and midnight larks. The band concludes some romantic march into the next proposed history. At the inaugural ball, it will be a gruesome sweat of trying on the next day. Hangovers are possible, with adjectives for feeling. Thru it all, the trees remain creamed because winter is long. Ideas about Mars, the red rock just above, circulate with life. Documents implode under the wait, just as would you, Dear Ragged Reader. Time is not helping the way the sun could barf ricochets of radiation in the year 2012. You are ready for that stock market impulse, yes? Of course and how wonderful! You matter, Sir or Ma’am, because you read these words. Each one has its pliant quantum bump, like the wake of a seasoned ship of state. The trees are creamed with snow, yes, and the rare black squirrel is in cahoots. Citoyen, will you dance your inauguration or will you step into the book you have made? Fling conjugal happenstance into the incoming franchise and dilate the oath of office. That Bush thing is out the door and the news cycle flutters. Please read, Dear Reader/Invader, what you are, in a tone set for the day. The message is mentionable, by all lights of enclosure.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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