At the Ayn Rand Institute, we advocate toothpicks that stand 17’ tall. We reject the mere utility of holding fancy sandwiches together, let sandwiches stand for themselves. We are Ayn Rand, finely wrought chicken. We live in Massachusetts, the any town of any mind. We live in the heart of a city of light. Our light is light, like strict passage to the next important fact. We beg for creations as tall as our men. We discuss actions and currents, with the highway as a map. We live in quick-paced sentences, distributing with zest. We are angels of agreeable passage, talking the night away so that we can sneak up on morning. When morning’s glow cuts the furtive sky, we strike a match. Our matches are towers of extreme trees, mastering the horizon and every imaginable paragraph. We use periods only to excite and impress the document. We are the document, just as the landing missile prevents unneeded reply. In seven years you’ll hear our bell.
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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