That was when rocking impossible. When it was something allowed human, and aloud tho of falling. It is almost holding the elbow of, or honest after kindness. Or not just a zone or treatment. It is a small, a landscape familiar to describing landscape. And the human people recognize the impossible rock. Volcanoes can’t be urgently and human to, and neither can you. Verbs were meant to go faster, like helping hands. Nouns were meant to install that place of being, one hand at a time. It isn’t such a tough road, rutted like nuance. Change lacks fastidiousness, often appealing to death. The approach of help seems fathomable, as far as fathoms seem. It is seen or just seemed, like across a border known for skeptical advances. Undue isolation for status, inquiry, and riposte remains as drag on the arm being held. Being in this together is part of being apart.
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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