When you become a marsh, fundament weighs heavy. Marsh fancies of community share mud, weed, home, predator, and predated, and love could complete. The various searches in time maunder silly, slanting light of hunger and amplitude. Sometimes the water goes away, like opportunity or time. It's only death taped to the map. Sometimes the water becomes a flood insurgency. Shifting seems so staid. No weeds exist except you decide to recognize. Frogs wriggle into nothing while establishing just now. You know how stasis comes across at the foot of heron or egret. Beaver always a mercantile delight to further the avaricious view. You are ready to go. Your towns give up on places bred to life. Warming error of margin in red shift out of time. At least you almost stand amongst. You can stretch your anointment seeking landfill for enterprise. Drab referendum of rich colloquy with profit goes great with banishing. Beavers fit the place they made, mosquitos make diligent clouds. Why don't you in the space within 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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