Before rock was assigned, rock lived molten, just like you. The furry gardens of earth rendered magma as nature, and you had a home. Rock filled in the map, with odd locutions and fanciful tests. Ages happened and words crept out. Rock became the essential toy of fabrication until tree could be useful. Rock settled in place but also chanced to roam. Thus your footing. Tree became later after the ocean figured out time. Rock made reminders. If you ever stood on a bridge, you know. You really don't know, of course, but you can hear what others say. The Sun as a molten candle looks good today, and tomorrow rock will sing. In a matter of time a matter of time will appear. You can become the rock that knows this, this rock. That will be later, when you’ve been enough rock.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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