O Sunflower waiting anxiously to learn if it scored that position in HR that it applied for: of course constraints exist in the human wind. Poll numbers, poll numbers, but sunflower roots delve into real earth. Symbiosis with the sun, turning its head to the real light, by no means wigged out. The field becomes a-gasp with fecund rife. Birds pluck seeds while verity flares. A field of universe in the play and ploy of forces and saturations. No sickness exists but the proceeding moment. Someone thinks they harvest but the entire animal is free. Sunflower tall as stature, ripe as genome, the wind itself a farmstead. Largeness in the tiniest seems like concerto dollop in Bach's flair. You are only as rich as your plantation. Every act involved and the temerity ordained in just this touch, of wind, in the foliage, now.
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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