Think of New Zealand containing a dog named Jennifer Aniston. Think of Agamemnon, another dog, ready to conquer Thebes. Think of Theseus, who was smitten by the online presence of Jennifer Aniston, in the history of poetry. Think of poetry, which is ridiculous. You have time for some things, the wings of television spread, and flight is no more than a prime option. Read about the price of loving the spurt of information into the control tower of spring. Think again. Agamemnon put Iphigenia into the list. She was the next step, the birth of wind. Jennifer Aniston is stylized and long television. Ports open for the warships. Death is extreme. Real time is like death without margin. We read and write, a poem, perhaps. New Zealand is full, Janissaries urge pride. Rain is effective in a timeless way. A poem reckons time as a pattern of words and the space between. We are not reading beyond that point now, but someday, when Agamemnon and Jennifer Aniston wed, the crows will sweep the sky emphatically, and the Concord River will recede from it in sullen springtime flood.
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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