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.
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