Your antelope plays with deer on the home range, as noted in chronicles. They bring dust with them, a taste of air, and smiles of delight with rare discouraging word. They rove the flat open embrace of land that poets imagine, distinctly doled to the hardworking advantage. As cattle ruminate with interesting stomachs, so too the antelope, more properly known as pronghorn. That name befits the instant of yearly cycle with horn replacement. Furthermore it corrects the etymology derived from the other hemisphere, id est the relationship between the species here and there. Cattle having it so good, pronghorn will slip into the herd like you at the office, to feed and gaggle. Whereas you have no space, tho, just the instruments of labor, the pronghorn roams the spaces as space itself. The songs prove accurate, the wind whistles, so much needs telling, and the skies are not cloudy all day. Take a deep breath in your vestibule for surcharge, the pay world gives and ungives.
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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