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.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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