The mechanical instance of wind, freighted for daily experience. Simply temperature gradients charging the atmosphere with utter balancing and crisscross virtue. Leaves sail, snow drifts, clouds portend. The gods, when not imaginary, seem imaginary because carrying portents. The wind has made tears, some your own, some for others. Do you remember those who died on other days, lost in the wind? They may still remember bracing flags describing specific wind as illustrative loss fit for sailing away. Away in time while space remains. You remember those that blew away, and space is never same. Your next string of gods, however, will be your best.
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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