Palm trees don't exist. How could they survive the only weather in the world. Cold, costly winters and vapid summers would play havoc on anything palm-like. Palms could only exist in stories cleverly whipped up to inspire intruders. The cost of imagination would skyrocket if palm trees were to exist. Poems would need to be written and god forbid even rewritten just to uphold the secular existence of palm trees. Palm trees would require exotic locale and string beans would disappear. Normal weather would start to look pear-shaped and accents would flourish. Normalcy's trademark would look floppy and constitutional emphasis would fail. Here and only here is where here is. That is a fact stacked on a fact in the overcast now engaging the world. Truth cannot hold the truth like this.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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