Towns seem human, and almost that. Vegetative imbroglios happen in conflict for land spot but in people way. You belong to an entrail after all. The dump seemed a smart establishment after too much mindless splay of energy. But how were mountains seduced and torn? Mines were created, people will dig for anything. And it all made nothing but a register cry. Yet here the land and people see to roots. The trees teach roots and the saw says no. The circle exists too, tho, cognizing fungi bigger than your thought. The size of sky when only overhead means a place perhaps of comfort. A collision of kindness sometimes happens. Are you ready for a larger language and doubt? The town begins to mean, back to dawn to mean.
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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