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.
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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