Saying “This country goes all the way to the left from the right and vice versa.”Call the riders Diane Prime and Edward Born and their rattle trap They are on the road, looking for the road and the where between. Rattle the road with rough sayings of space. Some willing to be willing and some not willing. Asking “Can the road extend beyond my next thought?” Diane thinks she enjoys a poem on some words and while the moments play upon the windshield cannonball along. Edward sees all on the way or all enough. Speeding to elsewhere and otherwise in the land and thought. “We have been to mere space with roads” they agreed. Sentences attributed to uncertain leaps and tanned profiles become data to turn. Diane says “All this turning.” Edward replies “All this left and right.” They agree again, repeating the motto: “The center must hold.” Always lit light from tempered humid here to found there as here. Nodding familiarity and time to mean something. In the excellent divestiture some words remain in the space of where and when. They talk of roses at the edge of time while on the path to where they are. Mythos can be plenty.
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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