As if everything were something. You see rife but each grain bears a word. Words don't stop: shadow frame fields . A geology of words promulgates some statute of promise. Whole worlds needs forgetting, one syllable at a time. The Ur of thought, city state and grunt. Grains of sand, once aggregate, a moment. Sand has been in process forever, to the limits of +ever as a word. The teeth of water and wind have ground, and have grounded. You feel sand in your shoe since ancient times and now. You can only listen minutely, a system of wind and rain that sets your city-state beaming. Here the ancient minute, as you understand.
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.
Comments
teeth grunts.
Minutely whole
syllables of
rain beam,
only forgetting to listen
to the limits of
words
for once.
The ancient process
is rife with
moments of
something that
feels like forever.