Mourning dove, but mourning? Mourning doves learn queasiness early, they are very alert. The notion of danger, of something not quite right, fires the rocket of their flight. The world is just the edge of nothing, the ace and deuce of super place. In that balls to the wall moment when something of what nature sends dove flying, wings whistle a strong rocket tune. The action inside action finds expression. The sound of mourning is a chosen containment, like you could make this stuff up. People listen to the ludicrous spruce of eulogy, nodding their heads in concert. Mourning dove instead chooses the bullet of flight that finds assay in time. Do you like the endless speech of staring at death while making up life? Mourning dove goes to the moment of attention where verbs brilliantly exist. The one noun in life must know something.
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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