The water looks so good in this admissible smidgin. Ocean has been pronounced, in deference to your size. A faint eyrie of thought occurs, reflection of sky on the unlunging surface. Limitless sky enclosed. Politics makes ocean sounds, tho puddles. You step into puddle as if death were the messenger. Puddle means remnant in your ocean wayward. Tears collect because poems must be rendered in keen tones. The puddle directly ahead apportions all the messages from the sky you imagined. Your wet feet slake. Monstrance puddle holds love possible. A step in immersion makes chance. The ocean itself cannot stop you. The puddle bears your best smallness, even while sere sun shines.
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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