Inside this encapsulated beau mont, alluvial sluice drives target question from opulent audience reactor. Thus Obama as a figure of parchment-like equation. We read the matter less than thoroughly, with prime or more in mind. Years turn, and we seek centuries. The country, which is leftover, seems diminished in radiance, like a chest of drawers. Robert Johnson in a roadhouse sweeps up scattered dimes, drinks something awful. We are right in our church. Desperadoes inveigh against blanket statements, using swaddling blankets as emphasis. A Dick Cheney lurks in the offing, like a porch. Inveigh against plovers, the smell of Hawaiian coffee smells delicious. That is to say, disjunction is fine in a credible world, when you can leap over something stoned by mere appraisal. Colours look like alternatives to sound. Would that consist of plover's walking in circles, or Cleopatra mustered to glamour by marrying? Outside is base maintenance, like original cattle. Dick Cheney lies on the bar room floor, and lies again.
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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