The ancient Greeks, vigilantly ancient, labeled planets as wandering stars. Planet can also be translated—free as you are—as galloping hoplite, suggesting instant remand or language as betterment. Just find between spaces between spaces for the perfect word. Like all ancients up till this very day, the Greeks looked to the skies for clues. So much breezeway in the wherewithal of looking. Because the Greeks did that so did the Romans, and other cultures before machines started talking. The planets pitched about more than stars did and looked brighter up there so better stories unfolded. Note bold blink of Venus, dawn or dusk, and Botticelli has been busy. King of Roman gods shines vast as speck. Blood red Mars endures as notion net loss across the tractor beam. Pluto aka Death is surely there, known but not well seen. And you read wild language fabulations, literary contrails imagined in the genuine dark. Dark remains the strictest beacon as you watch.
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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