That grain, seed, granule, presumption, of sand. Sargon fabulous in increase, a force in shoes. The world with legendary names, and sand. Proprietary, as well as sand. Ashurbanipal also. Reaching for the force of sentences, even-paced word at a time. This was, but now always. The earth bears the splendor of this bespoken. Sargon reaches for the speck, the crisis of need. A tiny withholding felt by all. The stridulous moment, unbending, allotments: a forest for the fate of cities. And so what passes for people beseeches what passes for gods. All that Ashurbanipal in one human containment field. In this calculus the sand seems perplexing, merely a world before and after Sargon, who lived before and after something Nebuchadnezzar. Sargon hustings, sorting, picking, scratching at words tabulated long ago by stretches of impulsive brilliantine illuminated on a map amongst galaxies or lesser grains of sand and standing. Knee high in neap tide, as the music note by note scratches the air after all. Sun and moon at right angle as the ocean is pulled back. Sargon no less a name than.
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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