In the far light, not the near light. Some Deities or fog, the way light bends around truth or anything like cattle. In truth the word used lays low and patient, like a mushroom. The Deities scamper with playful dated instructions, as everyone knows. Rain seizes the sky. Portents scatter at dusk without much importance. The sun fades again but will return. The respondents, full of winning slur, carry jokes in dull red hats. Their Deities, called gods or tremendous, throw patchwork into the breech. The wind blows instantly, even then.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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