Mountain has been pressed intro action, different from hill. You know Hill, a ripple under glacial instigation, such memories and tales. Hill realizes a day or so, nothing so human as eternity. And there you are, maybe out of breath, and not nearly grand. You still must think of pace. I seem to linger, says Mountain. Mountains include a center, pointed fire, vital tree, aspirational rock, cloud cover, the vista on the eye, and length of time. Everything present has been made before. Artful volcanoes in the quick of the eye, but anyway, just showing off for the elements. Mountains talk too much, with beastly clouds and riverine plans. Get to know them like a bear. You might find that thing that awaits.
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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