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.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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