His kaddish was amused, doors hanging from hinges. He sought baskets, with the smell of grass hanging over typical farms. Farms are intent business, with the loss of dichotomhy just a mask for the nature of death. Death is a brazen task manager, like your computer wizard. We are lent rhythms with each kaddish. We travel to fulcrum and consider the range of ideas that bask while blossoms flicker in trees. This season is like others.
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