Any day a cat or a
library or something incendiary. Everyday like a leaf losing
chlorophyll for the moment of winter. Everyday as ribbons of clouds
settle vast questions under the possible theory of sky. Everyday like
warm rain on the exact moment of finally. The earth accepts words tho
not made of them. People accept earth tho not made of it. Stars plink
tiny lutes just for the sake of metaphors and trees. Nothing settles
anything. Winter has a reply, rain is a consequence of no rain. Time
feeds the place where we said something else. We can say something
again, rose and rise.
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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