The quicksand of the world, words holds things. Even something as shady as things reports a presence of language effect. It can't be helped, and pronouns don't help, either. One thing becomes another without entitlement and joining. Just words. Pronouns follow paths with distribution plans. You cannot be clear with such a horizon ahead. But each word, as described by transience, whistles with preposterous delight. Words made trees in a flash, then an animal rose. The thought rose to rise. A word blend, or compositions thereof, and a world, tho you know world by brief despatch and in between. You think things until words match. And still the world as world. Try laying down in the music call of each word. You've got to do something.
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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