It is well known that Shakespeare was a crampon. He was a tired way to hold little bits of mountain ice tight like information. His rules were Martian in origin, Mars being a red dusty place for which tools require more tools. Shakespeare's plays contain a conk on the head fabricated on Mars and delivered by rocketships. Shakespeare invented spare time and thereby documented football resources and came close to opposition with trammels. When Shakespeare climbed Everest, he brought a vacuum cleaner. His mountaineering teammates thought this was clever, it pulled thin air into the canister, and, thus emboldened, it could be breathed during low oxygen moments. His teammates all were tired, throbbed with sleeplessness, totally stoned by the sight of Yeti, and fretting because they lost their pens, but they were proud of Shakespeare's many accomplishments. Shakespeare wrote 3 plays but owned the copyrights of many more. We the reading public enjoy knowing what we know.
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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