The town of marching even includes turtle. You know turtle as that rock that wants to cross the street. In the time it takes to cross, death could be called. Rest in light, death supplies numbers but nothing more. Know the business end of business by the lines it erases. Turtle must reach that water, and no other. A concourse of a lily pad makes a place for feeling sun. That clanking sound comes from you like the glory you invade. Your course lacks focus or constraint, just following the car's hey day continuation. Any ploughing path will do for you. Turtle sees the lights of earlier crossings, which proceeds in the uncorrupted vision. Bland trampling fuels your forgetful turbine, and turtle becomes that same old rock. Scolded, you will still just see stones in your passway. The anomaly of presence springs alive in the moment you wait.
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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