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.
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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