As egyptian president, I have been a book. I have been a library. A liquid assertion compels the age-old Nile in study, with whiffs of news called electricity. The people stand on chairs. Each chair commits a prognosis in which daisies arise in the mind’s eye, when the mind’s eye reaches Colorado. No egypt exists without president. The present is not enough. The egyptian present moves on curtailed vibrations. Like a dog in years, or a basket asking for help, the days muddle for completion. The complete egyptian president can talk. So can the many others. So can the guarding pattern of other nations. I have been egyptian president, on long walks thru hall after hall. I have spoken up for the presence of statements, of places to speak, of canvas upon which to paint, of stones to do the talking. The clock ticks conservatively. I ask for haymakers now, the will to live like molasses. Proper nouns list towards verbs. Smack can be both.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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