The 70s skidded with more guff. You used the word brusque. That was your period of twine. You left these monuments and said something strange. Foraging for imperturbable, you stuck Obama on your forehead. Bet that hurt! Cigarette smoke folded over the pages in your smart book. So okay, poetry fiend, read thru the pages, even when verbs are spurious. The 70s were soldered with details, prime metal. Nothing consumed the facts more exactly than the details. We were listening to the music, except that we could not dig it. We dug holes in vapour, felt proud. There is a left side to ontology, and you are bold enough to make a list. Include your 70s in this list. Centuries are constrained. You said daddy, but you meant Evolution.
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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