Some bold exit place for only feet of venture. How flat seems the distance between here and now as a garden invented by fronds. Distance proves impeccable, asserting possession. Imagine a sun just beyond that hill. Moments ago a vegetable, awaiting orogenic fumbling. The table poises, poses. That sound of nothing moving creates that external spark. Land becomes process, movement staid. Town erupts into faction because you know the knot. Address bears tokenized isolation. You have trod upon the land, almost.
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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