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.
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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