In a canny move, the grey remnants of poet Walt Whitman bought the rights to lilacs. Purple and white with ripe green herbage and a fragrance of abundance, lilacs exist and subsist as subsumed sentiment now. We believe implacable legend has purpose. We try to ignore "O Captain! My Captain!" as the poor marketing transport that it is but lilacs in spring loss fosters something deeper. Whitman knew he needed something deeply riding and present. Lilac skips ahead with a shout and full vernal escapade. Wherever Dooryards gather, there might you see lilacs a-bloom. We can forgive Walt and the crust of his beard. The nation is a bedstead and the cranks have long Lankin dreams. Consumerism called the shots all along, but lilacs stay.
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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