The cat-like Sanskrit ligature for om moves quickly. Precision seems like law as a child, the voices and signs. Clouds don’t weigh, they fill perfect in the world like perfect. A pictured cloud understands. Hand it to Crow, willing to bleat while pawing the air. Another stands before, and another, even the air feels contingent. Drum beat and paced steps, boil in place. War tribes filling bagpipes sort of way to meander. Anything distinct can be improved while language or just gesture. Thru all the time and busted heart, distance as breath, the instinct of caring, outright. One word at a time until complete, or whatever Dante says in distraction to the Seafarer. Throughout the poem, the speaker explores the.
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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