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.
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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