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.
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