You will notice the grand wood paneling in the rabbit hole. The sportive nature of rabbits so decrees because death remains no better than an exaggeration. Note the sparkly zest of rabbit as it pops from grassy clusters just to evade your interest. You and your dog note the vitality inherent in fleeing. It smells like the days. Rabbits sit quietly with ears, rise from the planet with scrambling hops, and elsewhere becomes a prank. Some hungry hunter may just catch, such is the life of fodder, but the teeming ranks prove hearty. Union-led and Union-fed, the proletarian consort bullets from gorse and sedge and provocative grass, provoking administration. Files of rabbitry sniff carrot leaves and feed. Endgame means nothing but a flash. The right spirit of experience feeds a moon risen in the morn. Fabulous dawn exalts the further chase. Rabbits run with the featured thrall of just this adrenalin quoin, both structural and aesthetic. The many spread into the one, the one into the many. Everyday a total rabbit run on the fine solstice carpet. Where do you start?
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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