The world, according to an accepted expert, is "too much with us." Parse that as you will, it may be poetry just to writes such words.Poetry lives in words grouped and presented like that. Numerous Things exist just by the words that appear. People believe they believe in the true matter of these Things that in multiplicity and panoply contrive as the World. Information about these Things crowds us all the time. Time began as a place to put all those things. The world provides a setting for time. In the parlance, world also exists as an orb, full of features, compellingly louche gravity, and a strong deference towards pumpkin spice. You may have noticed. The heavens look down upon the world and sometimes the windows of heaven open harrowingly. The heavens promulgate the susurration of right thought, or what will serve as such until something more right comes along. You know what you think you know and know what you know you think. The world rolls on, amigos y amigas! Happy trails to you!
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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