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.
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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