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.
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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