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The Wind

 The wind’s unmatched tonic, that specific note, owns Heaven and Earth. Earth is the hard part, solid battalions of molecules make the most of dance. Heaven bears the softness of launching thought asseveration. Wind carries, looking empty. Platitudes of direction grow amidst the balancing temperature exchanges ploughing entropy fields. Worth a chuckle to imagine the acrobatic play for things and no-things directed in the wind. The battalions scurry for mundane practicality: everything fits. Birds have fast-as difference ringtones slinging in the wind. The wind passes thru nations where umlauts do their best and the cedillas try to explain. Nothing really inveighs against the stasis but momentum. In this instant, a calling.


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