Imagine that the sky exists beyond the clever stories and stuffed gods. Such a crazy tale, attached to what? For truly this is not such a one as may be easily written down. Words seem opulently crammed and then you speak a framed Greek zero. Atop nothing sits nothing. Ovid, everyone's classical friend, drew this whole picture in rapid words. Like, life is a nothing till it arrives there, which is here stretched. Sky has clouds and weather but never really starts. It just is and isn't. Sky fills time with a passing cloud that remembers rain. Attic shuffle made rain fall from the sky, a god put in charge. The sky of very sky sorts time sequences. The first always will be 'first' if time really just makes a puddle. Here is when then was, but that's not now. The sky still insists on being sky, maugre the gods in passing. Presiding in this class action suit, contrive your moaning president as passing effect, a wormy metallic timepiece of little use.
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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