That day, that massed, looming day when knowledge knew what knowledge meant. A branch the size of a genuine branch greeted eyewitnesses with the speed of doubt upon the cold, grey, termagant-like waters of Loch Ness. Explain that with words sometime. Believers exist! Upon reflection--tho why spoil a good thing?--the branch became an otter of such magnificent size that astonishment rose to belligerent heights and the ghost of H P Lovecraft appeared as semblable forcefeed. All this dazzle and more surrounds the actual monster of legend, sunk in the precursorian deep of the Scottish lake. As we all know, Nessie, so called, stretches a goodly 300 yards or even some other number of swimming amplitude while scientifically existing like you when you are hungry. The world becomes a frame for saying outright, whether or not, and bagpipes truly exist. Over time and sometimes under, a monster makes your acquaintance. You should, however, just make your own. Even water of life contains exacting faction.
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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