Hobos relinquish as ditches. Times change, bears die offensively, and ditches remain. The human potentate decrees that time slices things. Not for us even, but news of Republicans. A course of action settles the ditch. The ditch frequents surveys of pain, but does not count. We are poured into tight situations, the special concrete of our vision, and peddle biological remorse. As homeless as a door folded into coinciding planes until the offering of one sluggish being seems enough for the taxable porch. Speed endures, ponds space out, books dilate, frogs frequent maps, and hobos dock in the dark while raining scores rock. Indent your every paragraph, in the proud excuse for position.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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