In these days of buckets, victims of haze process religion and other. Dates reveal other dates, confounded by duplicates and fidget. Reasoning supplies iffy contours on the well-brewed and inviting map. Why are the positions on this map coloured orange? This is your season, taxpayer, make the rules. Then rustle of papers, or cattle, and object becomes abject. What were the times doing to the endless stream of positions remaining? Strategies and pork. Now gum on the shoes, called Libya, becomes one more new long training session. We were expecting John Berryman to rise from the floor once more.
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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