Open the sky. There is where the sky could be, if here is not quite available. You can look at the sky and think of all the verbs you know how to do. The ones you can't do need your assurance. And the sky will hug every word inside you with the ripe advantage of meaning to mean. The stars of sky seem brusque but only because you consort with circles. You forget range, react to obloquys, while a glint of light travels three forevers just to meet you or what you think. You have an unreasonable plan without looking upward. Leave that aside. Light and dark have no sides, they just stretch a universe or two with implied emphasis. Stars, clouds, birds, and a heavy anvil of wind pronounce timely mobility and traces. That strict point in space you may thrive in. The sky won't quit, neither should you.
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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