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.
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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