The jocular Sumerians who tried hard. They ranged. They predicted Babylon, and that Assyria would be plaintive in outgrowth. We thought to look at writing but were visually impaired. We strove for the idea of striving while finding pieces everywhere. We read of prescient Gilgamesh and his rapt friend. Lethal strokes from the names of deities bedevil us. The quantum of that lasts years, vinyl memory, each as long as Buddha. All this nonsense of sense, we took turns. Those Sumerians at the bitter provoked cycles and drew words. Now there stands a dusted idea. Seasons flatter us with preservation and the idea we serve. Roots bottom out, tree rises high. Only now say words are poetry, only now grasp particular.
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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