A fawn, in the dark, running down the street, towards the car. Headlights, of course, vast directing. The car stopped but the frightened young one served the momentum of fear. It ran into the car with a falling clatter, rose, and continued running down the street. Following directly, the doe with valiant concern signifying look. Something scared the young one and it ran without control. Rudiments of living in the rudiments. The mordant sentence spoke the formation that astonishes to admit. We are weak and unlikely. Our fears become conveyors. Light rose from the doe. Breath asks with every pulsing: are you alive? Are you the fright and persistence? Are you ready to blend into the world? Deers will fly someday and they will be rocks. The crisp determined trees place you in the raucous wilderness, a mooncoin foaming value. High flown guffaws as matches are struck, the familiar discerned. Coyne's bog land, in the language fluster. It stands in what we see we are. Or are not, free of negation, quantified in looming value. You, me, it, what the fuss fancies.
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.
Comments