The current Administration, clouded and venal, offers nothing to the compassionate world. Reject the stance of dramatic anger at the world's vigorous rush. We are not children on this speck of dust, we are words of leaning in the light. We need no tokens and television control. We need only say yes to the words of her mouth, they are the same ones seen in the dark of our dying. We can taste a caring that doesn't make the singular mistake. That party of affliction is no longer that party, just bounds of hurt from the weight of anything. Anything is not a distance but changing flight to only delight. Only the one of world is won. We are the same turtles, stones, flies, and attention as ever.
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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