Rapped across the running streets like vines of dire reaction. We were the generation, and still are. Sunbeams make fancy bullshit, we wear berets. Stretching out from old igloos oh we have a whole ball to roll. And into the streets we say, racing with foregone gloom. Tidal in every respect, we roar off ready to banish. The moment flashes in still water. Exposition follows except news disappears. Expect to have words in a moment. The air we breathe contains anything, same as nothing. By this, we feel relief. The road is only one inch long, if measured in time. The inch does not exist, just after effects of the measure.
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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