Tears make a conversation between those of us and those of us. There is a gap called life. You are the prime then the number expands to precincts, cities, exactitude of love. No words gulp and slop over the rails of reason, not this brightened day. Trail autumn while Chris has words. Words are our distance and close, both in the net and fret. So the few few few chords and that enjoyment. We meet in the strong and weak words, chords, I love you. Love you love you, many times the instant.
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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