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.
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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