Professor Igor Xerxes paced restlessly as he studied the document. It was found amidst the satchel of papers he received from a mysterious woman who then disappeared into the human turbine of The Casbah. Piquancy of prose topped the roll call of the vaunted papers. ’A prose poem, joy of the gods!’, muttered the professor. Prose of gilded favour, with prompt verbs and oozing adjectives. An impression of intaglio in every noun. Adverbs following verbs in stately preset such as when the canny clicker provides the best tv viewing. Boldly on he read, an unfaded prose poem from when literature still sent shivers. Professor Xerxes went on and on, and even on, tracing the vantage of excellence in the critical mass. Suddenly, with a warlike cry, Professor X threw aside the precious document, ran to his desk and wrote the most powerful footnote of his esteemed career. Culminations bloom in the offing, as oft they do, when scintillant use of punctuation wins the day.
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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