The state runs the fort. Trees become vacuum. We made a city from the death of turnips, one sentence at a time. Crucial leanings of trees suggest the passage of time. The clock of mountains comes apart. No reason exists to explain, a drawn picture in slippery lines will inevitably take shape. Here we are deciding in language needs. Plants have enzymes or some chemical thing that seems to work. Words merely get lost. Lost is the new way of finding.
Picture a gathering. Insolent patterns appear. Microdiatribes float up for recognition. We make what we can. We can be heartened, it’s what we can do. We can look to arrange things but even the falling apart makes arrangement. College attracts spoors. Education has a crust.
The town remains in mind. Pure fields cause laughter. Just a few nights ago the moon shone above trees with fair silk cloud explaining diaphanous by example. Plenty of time for that, and screeds. A logical basis might be needed to complete a trash can and it’s iron tongue. We all claim the mountain as Chairperson, stalwart and ready, with the presence of nouns. This town specifies an ingle wherewith warming insight well not really. Prose has been abandoned for the outer reaches. Colleges sit in cities.
Lightly clustered nuance propels our polis. It stands on a hill with a literature of light, only the crockery becomes too apparent. Sentences escape sentences a words at a time. Chapters complete the process. Kerouac was right to be wrong.
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