We see the eye as an organ with general fluxing agency. It paints a world of painted worlds. In the bold compendium of thought, Emerson had an Eye in mind, transparent but ready for vast or small. It resides in the mind’s sigh, let us say. This eye sees or seizes, and it calls you to pace. An eye can only, and often does. Look how the rain blithely spatters the ground except that it is snow and the ground a common bison. Shakespeare called the eye ‘vile jelly’, abetting the groan of sadness in drama and changing. The eye proves possible tho cultish in application. Anyone can have tears, seen in the moment. To what witness do you listen? It could be time to forgive. Soften your grip, meaning now. Trees swayed in the wind today, but tomorrow may be dark. That field, that place, that time. You surely see what I mean.
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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