What do you do in the day when you are thronged but the clustered clouds seem maximized to resistance? You stand in the place of autumn, and list objectives. Notes twinkle in the offing, that might be music, might be words. If words are so easy, easy as clouds, then let the reading convey the position you need. You are read by the extent of stars balanced by extremely accurate conjectures. Did you read that somewhere, or are you quick? A poem cannot mean more than words. You do the day, writing positions and placing acclamation into arguments. Someday, you will realize that this is not a challenge, it is just plain facts providing a motor. Read from the centre outward, requisition the charm.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
Comments