Simple naming, blur sound. My dad had a table and Janis Joplin stood on it it and wild. Those days imagined a process of evaluation and moor. The rock of leaves and trees in water till lots of spaces between. When the number includes the endless vowel as testament of sorrow on the edge of time, timeless is a town by anything. Those days of just enough to loud, to over ear the letter of the Dad, generation. But in rations of slower down to word, you could say the structures were made to be resisted. And the Dad that had to turn away to die is a vetted program called life until you see the same same thing. Dad your, sun, like it is that easy, down by the green wood.
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.
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