Snakes have it wrong and it's their own damn fault. They should have normal arms and legs--the full bloom of logical spirit--and try to be agreeable, not writhing. Snakes should smile more with glad hand, would that hurt? Could they avoid being underfoot, laying in wait, as all waiting waits for you. They bring timor mortis to tried time. Maybe keep venom and fangs to themselves, they overplay that card. You can see snakes lack basic human culture. Sound the register: snakes unhinge jaws to accommodate huge smackerels of prey, they mate in knotty tangles worse than your own, they leaven the stories of wormy deceit. Snakes can be fathomed by fear, an ancient unforgettable human trait. Cold blood exacts liability, like who you are is what you fear, even in sunlight. Every town knows its snakes in strange whiplike commotion. Dun-coloured parliamentarian contortions of snake manage fear and ostracism with nagging twist. The righteous shall clutch hard the plummeting wagon of gosh. Nightmares dreamt by active imagination and spirit of occult produces myth and misses. Snakes reside somewhere in you, the hidden reptile you. Your normalcy holds back the tides, tho the tides may as easily disagree. Walk barefoot and the landscape bites, ever and always in your mind.
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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