This simple instrument makes proletariat lifestyle. Work you rays inside, factory finds right components. Trees fashion a tidy intimacy of production involving just transmuting sunlight into energy for growth and plug, exegesis of wow mode. Life generates death but with vital esteem that might run amok. What to be done with the discards when used up. Will the map fill with remembered objects and o-bla-dee voices? Conclude the life cycle by not stopping. Let leaves begin to moulder, let your fund fund. Winking lush fabulous gush of monetary spoonful applies to straight cycling of industrial merch. You look at leaves on the ground. Ground and sky are same. Death adjusts.
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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