Ten words with a strong violation of practical sense render now possible old teeming when the sentence goes loosened goose. A flock of even more than marvel flips the sky for a profile dalliance. A flock of words, counting to ten, and then a sentence makes a parade. We write poems in our dreams. Our dreams read poems and a flock. As words soon prepare more words, and a poem is only when a crow could stop action, then it has to be Christmas, just to make sense of winter. Now the practice renders a standard and picture. We have poems to bring to neighbours. We sit by the door.
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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