Tall as canyon and just as framed, the oak remains actual. At parties, oak looms. Acorns aside, oaks are not hilarious: they stand. They stand for all the forevers left, and you could be cousin to the node. Expect oaks to be hounded and impervious. In politics, oaks sway with the release of the forgotten. The silver sliding sliver of light invents nemesis, also called fire, but that moment’s snap refers to ages of diligent oak. Oaks can tell you, tell you. An ageless, endless, amiable leaf flies while time makes a whole. Autumn becomes a suggestion. Pizzazz is a word oaks rarely assert: just too capricious in the fields of time. Human truncation accepts ellipses, serious whispers of rock argue sanctity, but oak booms the placement of the top of the sky. People haven’t bloomed well, the oak must persist. Please, go often to your oak. A manifestation proceeds to chancery. People lost in lodestar might ask why time seems so picante. Oak scorns drift.
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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