Mouse is mice, fostering human grandness by being small and lost from all purview. Mice like to mention things, wild, innate, cramped, constitutional things. They are small, like the wren with sherry left in the boilerplate. Mice make manyness, mostly from crumbs of the echelon. How human, with their little peeps impressing smaller to your world view. The single mouse you see in sooth becomes a throng, all curious and mitigating, as if life could be lived like that. Mouse has eyes that look like singular eyes, tho vision transplants in equable doubt. Mouse runs furrows thru snow with homing precision. You cannot share a castle or good tidings but let mouse invade the tablature. The sky seems just as great and greeting for the mouse as for you, but you know better.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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