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.
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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