Notice flax seed. It is terrible. It resolves into numbers and you are helpless. It grows in imagination, which lacks forgiveness. It seems so friendly, yet your roots run lack of plant. Your human bones feel like endlessness. You cannot forgive a seed, a tiny eternity, a spot of growing time in your weak eye. You cannot milk flax. It is thunder beyond sound, lightning beyond sight, anything beyond you. You are time's implicit reaction to no time. You will have to wait till no time wins, long after flax.
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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