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.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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