Consider the orchard. It judges moments by eons. It knows the passivity of red sunset. The skirling readiness of grey dawn excites the orchard. The trees of orchardness symbolically bear light with vigorous enfranchisement. A word exists for that, if you can find it. Stories told become, which awkwardly implies lanterns. When you walk in orchard you think of the borne fruit. That fruit unravels time in a seductive test case. A blue sky brings proverbs. An aptitude for music, or any gushing of words, or simply the colours between colours, these all cede to orchard as place before place and after. The day begins in moments and slyly ends as well. Consider the orchard.
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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