Thousands of people, millions, then more as more have waited. They cared to exchange one for one, as if one were not the entire haul. Their place remains as sand, stories, additional sand, stories of sand, peopled sand, sand people, and just sand. The lord arranging this created ineffable as a function for dilation and emancipation. Are we not rocks at heart? Rocks were meant to say more by handsful of weight and mass, sand is just the proper easing encumbrance. Mass introduces a wider world, where impact and resonance pulse heavy and light. Even light grows heavy in its strokes of passage. Something said now remains said, the ever faithful sand. The saying remains in the buckling sand underfoot. More can be made less but sand endures.
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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