The Secretary of Stories woke politic. In that engaged cold wind November, slightly stiff stopping in the woods. We have to have 1950 tell us Moon. It refines in verbiage branch, which means they said they said. Words cart over tumble to explain how and when, for the practical good invented in this space. Is ever semantic word freed beyond the coastal waters of needing to say? Which practical invention says the lives of anything could be cured? Having deemed local Republicans too pro-helicopter, season the Secretary of Stories for the long haul over rocky roads.
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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