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.
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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