Are geese available for better religions? If so, they should be told. It is a merrie time of year and geese need vital plots of land, screws in the hay, fantasy forests with elves for dinner. Geese need Harry Potter underpants and presidential pardons across the brisk ocean waves. Religion is for pets but geese cannot be pets: they have wings. Wings simulate excess, increasing marketshare for those geese that can fly to normal places for dinner. Lunch with the president? You bet, but dinner is important, like religion. Always a dessert at the end.
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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