When you become a marsh, fundament weighs heavy. Marsh fancies of community share mud, weed, home, predator, and predated, and love could complete. The various searches in time maunder silly, slanting light of hunger and amplitude. Sometimes the water goes away, like opportunity or time. It's only death taped to the map. Sometimes the water becomes a flood insurgency. Shifting seems so staid. No weeds exist except you decide to recognize. Frogs wriggle into nothing while establishing just now. You know how stasis comes across at the foot of heron or egret. Beaver always a mercantile delight to further the avaricious view. You are ready to go. Your towns give up on places bred to life. Warming error of margin in red shift out of time. At least you almost stand amongst. You can stretch your anointment seeking landfill for enterprise. Drab referendum of rich colloquy with profit goes great with banishing. Beavers fit the place they made, mosquitos make diligent clouds. Why don't
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