The town is filed and prairie. A diamond culled from our fence receives this victim: a chill in time. We stayed with our logic and felt lines. We searched. Close ingots plopped to mellow refrain. Wet earth asserts a sentiment and week, wild factoid omelet. This love of fineness, our love in fineness, stretches across the dirt path to fill welcoming forest. A poem, there, met with a reading eye. We light, perched as dew on leaf or snow when the wind is middle. Thus the plan and wings over volcanic stretches constitutes unique take and given time. Saints flicker in preparation.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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