It’s a start, one night called autumn. One moment called, one after moment sent night. Somewhere in between, some time in the settling of each word and other words. The autumn in the current sky reveals dark open field or orange sentence leaves. Feels great and fine, even after the sun finds clouds. Night varies day and we have to adjust. Even the trees know, and their words are colour. All leaves add colour to colour, reclining in colour. Soundly beating heart, or no longer. This is just the time.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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