Water lives not always water, and you cannot be always green. You could, if you know water invites your star. Water makes simple, as your greenness infers. Think the river, startling the land. Changing each moment as a movement and blood flow, your established praxis shies from rest. Water doesn’t rest. The stammering of steam and hard abeyance of ice signal infinite vitality at the drop of a hat. The hat goes maybe mobile in the always left behind. Time has been clean and dirty for you, in watery regard. Light glints water you, in changing notes. Ahead is the past you arrived at. Your smile can grow enormous.
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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