The anyhow time of beaver seems simple enough and directed. Build a home in the idea of home, and make it the wet part of everything in elemental time. Tho called industrious, beaver has yet to light a furnish. They shape the landscape like liquid lightning, that enterprise. A tail slap of water provides rousing vocal claim. Teeth that never cease to grow look like American aim. Flood a forest in the touch of time. PowerPoints from the beaver lodge explain life as ongoing. You have work to do while being done. Drag a branch into water in your own time, just try the challenge of chewing a tree. The state of being without or beyond a thing seems strange and without reference. Corporate continuity includes paperwork, fluffy forensic nothingnes. The breeders at Goldman Sachs have the future of no future faintly in mind. Numbers flatten the picture to easy register. And that becomes thriving. Flooded fields and forests trouble no beaver, they vindicate with a thriving lodge. Why does thriving not equal thriving and living not life? Well, as the story goes.
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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