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.
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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