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.
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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