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.
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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