Cardinals are birds, attested by exertions in the middle of a sentence. Their red (male) feathers give rise to their special name because they clutch the spectrum at the same place as those Pope-appointed church fathers who wear raiments of red. The birds were first, red like the beaten afternoon sun. Female cardinals own a rusty orange colour, perhaps to hide better in their nesting covert. The colours of cardinal requires the time each colour takes. We have a love story, then, amidst the trees and breathing world. From the bifurcating colours of the sexes you can impute as you will. Cardinals sing together well, exhibiting excellent triangulation. Judging by the range of calls, they maintain a lively colloquy. Their crest could win praise just for its distinction. Like unto blue jays, titmice, and not much else on this continent, cardinals have top notches. Only the tanager matches cardinals in downright redness, but cardinals have crests, the winning thing. Their beaks crush seeds in the trundle of time. Outside time occurs words, peeps, and other fitting machinery. Any singing matches nothing but a point too quick to map. The flash of red or rusty brown says something piecemeal in the attainable world. You are a clock, Reader, you are a clock.
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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