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.
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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