There’s a town with a brain, now. No people live there. No purple sweating public branch of the affiliated stand on their toes to block more sun. No bandaged thought processes calling for more less more react with temper at the newspaper on the floor. It’s the traction of reaching out for fit pockets filled with urgent chewing that survives the debate. Every food is for the time. As they say in the voting vault, you pay what you get for. The town is a gravid pit for understanding how the gravid pit fills with gravid pits. In time, the folks will swear, a light of reasoning will spurt freshets cooling the hot brow of angry time. The human will then spot human with a verve and trust, till dinner time politely.
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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