There was a time when the logs in the fire were just children. You could depend on information, it was made on a hill and rolled to your door. We all insisted on the practical wave of knowing right, right to the beginning, right to the door. Patents were tendered, but children cannot step away. They have to stutter and fit that. The knowledge of children crystallizes in patient undertakings, like anti-Semitic watches or telephones with cancer. All time resonates in the way language grows from barking sequences overheard late at night. Not wolves or coyotes but the angling mentor who seizes opportunity as a nation. Not making sense is the new tomorrow but then the sea rises over the wall and litters the streets with plain old matter. To test limits is to read injunctions. Thank the doleful engine for such persistence.
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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