The town with its very children, not solely the flight of anger into minutes tellingly. Not that finishing of sense as business, a President in parade. The children are the town and we will help. We will let them hold rocks and reach at clouds, we will help them. We will read little books of everything to them, and tell them ponds exist. We will just say look again, anyone said a frame of thing, and feels the world as well.. A President in parade says any useless thing to stay still in saying President President. President lost the town the children just by that.
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.
Comments