Winds blow cold in the dawn of climbing. The hill before the morning steadies in veil while the townsfolk—they invented Plymouth Rock—their sleep is a pasture. The deeds of lurking and obsession still the rivers, rivals campaign. The hill is bare of knowledge, Cold in token. Death becomes the faction of seed while snow remains cold. No farmstead bursts into bloom tho burning homes are known. No one can see the hilltop now, only choices for a simple day. The language of this fits everyone, in testate and loss. The even stones become clear as words upon a bough. The hill is an afterthought of sunrise.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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