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.
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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