The pressure of Afghanistan, for instance, it's a thing. The turbulent mountain area around groomed for something, then air strikes, then dense sentences. We could ask for more, when the lakes near towns wobble with human-like weight. We could ask almost more as rain forgets the land party, struck by cackle hand of. We could forget more and say the land was right, almost any. But we make claims, fill notebooks with details, and call things things, whether they are or not. And when it becomes debated, the air is rotund, the moon a casual camp, and each star drips sarcasm. Thus it comes down to. When you catch a glimpse of the candidates, tell them they say so.
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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