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Sky

 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.


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