Colours plan the coming day. Dark as stone or bright as wood, a gentle occlusion flickers the time. You saw the overcast and chances are. Clouds contain heft and fortune. The sight might try to die while you look away. Clouds caught the wind and threw it faster. Rain may plaster the day, snow may mass. Sun couldn't hold the green forever, tho we love to love. Maybe you sang about the boar's head feast, maybe you didn't. If the stars can't last, the light must be churned from elsewhere. Bonfest red dawn and dusk mix in the clouding. Focus to attain just the glimpse of something entire. Ride light and easy even tho. Words constitute the colours remaining. Whole seconds exist to see that. You are listening with your eyes.
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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