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.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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