Emily Dickinson started something, time and tide. A match enclosed a flame, perfect fret, a candle was next, a condition, A concrete fact as distributed… Emily woke from the direct statement. A lighter feeling, closer to the moon, but then autumn was at hand. tossing pilgrims into the satisfying wind. This meant another day or two, startled by butterfly, ignored by rocks. Patient, like a quick thing on the edge of something slow, she. Doctored by delight, she stewed then flung, winked then bartered. Whisky was not a real man.
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.
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