The rattle of canticles woke Captain Element from the extremes of river view. A posse of water, gallant fields, a cricket wakeful to manners: all this spread vistas like a trust. Captain Element, superb in the bloom of dawn, spoke highly of the event, translated through the spaces of time into a doorway beyond which winter fails to include. I agree with my dizziness, said Captain Element to the tune of reading aloud. The Reader, not the Writer, comes forward to shake the monstrance in one quick indication. Reader realizes that wild winds are privy to our warmth, winter damages are fretful through the orchard, and spring is a distance away. I travel to the light side of war, remarked Captain Element, having seen that a President can speak a lot. The country is downsized, read the reports. Canticles register in the space left after input. Readership must waken, is the logical deduction. And good old narrative will find a way through, right through news of the next layer of war.
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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