An ancient king, Sargon—not just dust but a placid framework—built himself into present ages as a necessity. And who said “Sargon, don’t think negatively. Your negations mean a world”. We see it all the time, the straining words, the sense of prologue to a brightly undefined fitfulness called The Future. Sargon built walls, sure sign of eminence. He could not reject space because he filled. The rally of his greatness lasts and lasts, as he could tell you in sacred cuneiform. How epic the way time embraces everything including beginnings and ends, and the idea of brimming.
Sargon began as a wee enterprise, far from floral or residual, yet after floating downstream, he rose. The Standard Inscription of Assurnasirpal II dressed for the afterlife. And then a map of the Akkadian Empire. All this produced walls, mighty walls, and explicit ziggurats, commerce. A reliance on community invoke the cursory imagination. Trammels replaced trammels, blood seeded blood. History wrote the gods and blended. The walls came down, the word went out. Uttered time in shards. This then until this not then.
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