We see no tomorrow, said the sheep. It is true that Nero was still very young, but our traveller would pass up from the Lydian vales to find the Cappadocian Hatti no longer the masters of the plateau as of old. The spoil of Jericho remained: a Babylon garment, two hundred shekels, and a wedge of gold, which were meant to state and remind. We see the edge of dawn, but that’s not tomorrow, said the sheep. Sacrifice makes sacrifice real.
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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