nO outside exists for this perfect Eleven. It is number, arranged, transported to specific. And it counts, tho just barely. It is reason to be more than ten, it includes. it seems more than the nine that almost. It means language, if a dry dust. Or a planet tamed by numbers, all of which are One. on this Eleven we think of poor people, unelected monarchs, creases in the smirk. Eleven becomes the afterthought before thought, outside the careful cage, urging interest. Ten is the normal incline of numbers in compact human definitions. Eleven scours solely for the unintegrated nonce of Eleven. The presiding thought describes monolith, the heaven of stupid. Stupid Times Eleven guides the vote.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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