The tree of apple documents space in time. Boring of course but part of the plan. Freely labour in the apple tree's shadow. It provides welter for everything spinning, who knows why? Perforce all weather is perfect, eagerly, by definition. Welcome and welcome, the blossom presumes. Shucks and certainly as the foliage surges. Then fruit, the mild certainly. There is when, when is there. Every tenement of land posits creative in the inkling. You feel the undertow of passage. Hit the brakes! The jocund fruit falls jingling in blue space. You will enjoy walking in the grandmother's time.
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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