On examination, the map proves wrong. That land could never offer beyond colours perplexingly arrayed. It presented flow but also stricture. It meant deeds and dying, in colloquy with estrangement. Thru the years and asseverations, the horizon only anticipated another day. No river could keep up with the weight of such hope.Those days became these days, a rumble from the ocean to enforce stratified polis overarching the usual strictures called life as we know it. The map shows boundaries of water and sand, direct gasping at potentials, and a language full of shiny red fruit. The imaginations grow succulent while Rimbaud himself discusses images of mazy life. Excess receives documentation. The superfund dilates with express exchange: Countries go to war for crap, minarets look like smokestacks, charity receives bad cess, a royal splatter covers all. These noble castle walls smell like direct payment. The perceived flames have no heft at all.
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.
Comments