Fun fact: radish became foodstuff after someone’s long bad spell of foraging. Found as a possible means of survival, mezzo mezzo, the radish tastes like creaking noises. Survival remains as a documented goal, so radish joined the supporting cast that includes slobby, gobby oysters and other interpretations. Radishes can be eaten without exploding in dark intestinal corners, at least theoretically, if you hold your nose. Radishes never seem beyond the means, which places them in some democratic light, like workers of the world. No la-de-dah radishes exist, that would thwart their Puritan function of joyful affliction. Radishes remain in the salad panoply with shining guilt, the nerve of festive injunction. You can pulverize them with your molars, accepting that radishes taste like radishes, just as poetry tastes like school. The balance of your acceptance of these conditions adjusts our keen Democracy with tiny twitches. Radishes seem like harsh contretemps but lo, how radish-like are you?
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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