Funeral procession is a numb stasis. When I say I sign the logic, the bills run into children. This is the inevitable clopping sound down a hall. It isn’t like a river is clean of fray. We move on, tho it depends on a mighty emergency. The state of state is being stated. You could be morose with the emptying but how can a globe hold everything? The sides are round! The people are around. Even children could be people, if it comes to that, but they must die round circles like the rest of us. We have a contest that ranks. We are not oceanic in the civil way, only tidal excess. The symphony ends with a message from the doctor who said this is a dead child. The doctor was kidding, children don’t. The subject performed an invocation for remorse. Remorse refused the attempt.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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