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.
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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