Acorn plunges forth with plenary momentum into. Into land and time and time’s structured limit, the year. The acorn fulfills social construct, living in communal scads, in word-like abundance. The grand scape of oak provides an early nest for the frenetic pace of burgeoning acorn. Listen to the solstice. The ripened missile leaves the tree within the light presumption of time. Your time may not have noticed. Squirrels in ardency then proceed as shepherds of energy, rustling up acorns in gorgeous aptitude. Some acorns feed the squirrels, some nestle in loam, to dream the light within. And you are busy too, as rivers pass, winds blows, the people who appear. Your hand can touch another, the acorn holds still for a moment. Perhaps something can be declared in the remaining sun. It can only last forever.
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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