Soft fronds in the dire dirt, logging traces in the body. Soup passes misery for the school of aching. Politics slips posse into possession. Extended version of the same thing goes all directional. You heard the clip clop of hooves, pictured everything in the basic nothing. So did I. The guitarist on the stage relies on a mirror into which every spirited retort can be redounded. This is a specious sport. Activists have hardened. The neutral basis of caring surmounts intent. Those rats scurrying have their dinner to attend. Weeks and postures go by, serious in the din. When we leave this flood zone, we expect a better place. After midnight, we're gonna chug-a-lug and shout. In minutes, hours will go by, then days, then history itself into blank places formed by assertion. The body of the words is dead, but that does not make them any less said.
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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