with windows of clean power, gruff brown bark on the sedentary
trees, a vocal majority without words (not real ones), with sentence
structure amassed in piles by lawns of water or dirt, the central
pictures of an anxious squirrel with prime sense of mortgage, and the
clear meaning of green leaves at their timetable—the sky is blue
like under advisement!—meanwhile, an unarmed teen, massive rally
(amazing people), the words under the words aren’t really words,
not words like that...
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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