Flying in the actual sky—not the blue part, and not in some fuselage of heaviness—into some city fitting snug on the planet exactly in time. Think of this then when people gathered and called for civilization, the real stuff, a sure pattern where words wear. People as peoples understand that Future days such as these will be with us in the future. Now the flying continues as thought above the fierce provocation of some place and history. War has mongered on, like breeding. Titles of books burst forth to lead the way into temporal struggle vis-à-vis how sedentary temples, cathedrals, monuments, and stand out statuary make earth place of moment, however long and ago. Maybe you have watched a crow or other articulation amid expressions of each human act in perceived environment where change et cetera conforms to stasis in the large picture of few words. Your moment is monument, a close terminal. You see the march daily, across wheatfields and tidal hope. Anguish becomes another for just about anything, when you try this hard.
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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