Furthermore, this Mr. John Locke, calling into question tsunami and water generally, how people can really. We have adapted to a television, at least. A syntax of possible impulse and possible impulse in reply. Identify a period of soothing, faked up with rhetorical questions. Then the long green seizing, not particular. Only this Mr. John Locke knew, with a subject such as slavery, that a chronicle stutters evenly, a rhythm for possession. Mr. John Locke could capitalize any word he wished. Such was the Age. Now we bend, just like tectonic plates. Now we go toward seashores with nervous eying. Now we read the first sentence of a paragraph, and allude to the rest. We hold demi-tasse to be self-evident, as in paraprosdokian. We steep tea in pots as a gesture toward completion. Mr. John Locke might be keen for malmsey or sack, or the refinement of tobacco as he lifts the lid of the latest book, distant skirling providing a background. Within the chambers of the book a space of average, excepting the spectacular word. Now we march ahead, like sugar into molasses.
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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