Isn't it always joking aside with Cthulhu? Humourless Cthulhu reaches into endless depths of Earth and time to bring up horrid muck and the smell of sortilege and cheese. Forsythia sends roots into the world and springtime flowers appear. Yellow flowers, a précis of Spring. Youchoose. The whiplike branches fill with blossoms even before fledged with leaves. The landscape sparks, news that stays news. Green ordinariness follows as the season matures, but wait. Those thin branches may just lean and droop till touching earth itself. Roots form from the touch, and new plants to send their share. Generative brightness could form a reticule of maybe bee-line calm to meditate the process: staying in time to the time out of time. No need to shame grim Cthulhu for being a lug. Just step it up and step it out. Let rain be the beginning of rain, in the flower, branch, and root.
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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