The doctor rounded the corner, saw a patient. This is my lucky day, said the doctor. America is light with fulcrums and remedially reading. Ducks call off the attack while swans swing to the rhythm of the water upon which they float. Today is a desperate practicum, said one doctor, with the appropriate dictionary reference highlighted. The others agreed. We write a tendency, said the lead doctor. Other doctors joined in, temperately contained and radiating from certain facts. If this were my government, mused one doctor, and left the comment unfinished. A sudden call from Insurance Company, night time again,
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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