So deer run into the
dark because dark is a champion. We see the events described by those
who grow anger. The anger grows in rations, fed to pour. Something
about how selfies execute electrons in election years and further
remonstrances. Periods of poor light. And the deer run in the dark
without sharing names, only the simplest light glint in their eyes
until tomorrow. We can talk about tomorrow as a nation of force.
Force is a final subject, left mostly for children and the bleak hold
of the rented day. Thank you for listing.
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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