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.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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