YOU are the force of sand. Ground to implication and scatter, yet effectively centered. You can boast the briskness of being there, which is here, the element. The polis of integrity, the politics of iota combine like irritation. You are voice as a single word, a document, a sentiment. You can be the ocean itself, waiting in terms and process. So buck up, you are clear, unclaimed, and constant. You smack the beachheads and warzones, and even bear a name thru crossfire winds. The sentence cannot exist without you.
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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