Somebody spoke like hankies in the dropdown menu of the plastered faction, so we got together for a Trotsky. Rife whistles rent by hayseeds toggled on the modular web design determination of the prole section. We like our sporty shirts, so attractive to grunting parts, say the comrades swaying in the wind. Obama sopped up Parisian sunset by the River Seine, his mood ring filling improbable school nights with his First Lady Michelle and her anyday shine. That new age Tongan Rush Limbaugh, observing ossuary assumption, sweats the oldies and the newies, his nose an immaculate closet. Meanwhile, we laugh over fields of warbling bluegrass, thinking horses, the justice of legs. The hankies of intention started a new round of praxis, which translates as the guy in the commercial who likes what he has. Hot to Trotsky is cool to Stalin, laughed Lenin, snorting comical coke. His hanky will be our hanky someday, crusty as the merest sanction.
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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