they were blowing up, in rhythms called blankets. they were strict in sweating dust and under the overpass. they were in the details of fog, more intent than daydream. the blowing up is a factory of precise secular regime. it will mean the dead spot of a drum, where you don't want to go. god and sinners reconciled, backstage. spellcheck chases every ensuing moment, every click and a bull let thru.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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