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!
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.
Comments