Ignite was a
language when we, trees. The time in the way of being in the time
near time when we could be, that was nearly timeless. We could say
anything and a crowd or almost and some agreed, we were for fighting
or fitting. Each word remained in the time or until. We sent messages
or reminded ourselves that messages were peering. And the days of
delivery, those august days that were or were not really, over the
coastal plains and into the fat bring landscape, we heard mountains
once. We had time for nothing but nothing had time for us. So the
language, in conspiring sentence of logic, albeit logic grew that
moist and flowing, like something meaning nothing more. Later anger
became present anger, yesterday’s sad brush painted something
today. No guns were reported to have spoken. We didn’t have time,
much as time liked us.
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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