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.
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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