Anyway. They came up with something called poetry, bless the gods or martians. It was meant as an actual transference, with time indicated by musical notes or at least a sonic imitation of interest. Well now.The web in which poetry could be constructed would slightly envelope those trained to perceive it, or somehow they would join factions and enumerate active participation in something called language, tho the instigating gods and martians really weren’t that tuned in to the repercussions of such assumptions and fever of sighing. So anyway. Flowers could be seen disporting in crisp morning light, their fragrance would saturate certain words, and people would become goodlooking, moments at a time. Yes, there was only one ‘time’, sloppily edited by something called perchance, which caused a burdensome dependence on catching the so-called glimmers of what the gods and martians swore were not essences, merely clock ticks in the eternal classroom. But really. Strange adaptations were not simply colloquial, music sighed with a bull moose crackle, and ladies, gents, et cetera, event so forth, ring-a-ding. And so. This proved all so exciting in a muddy way. Mud, the buoyancy of spring, the earth, young love, documents forever, and the true calling. It could include. Electric crackle and rara avis, importunities and lexical whatnot, refried evidence and chance engendering, class distinction and vocal tectonics, a new world and just a world. The gods or martians, and the gods ~and~ martians, seasoned their spatial reverie with striking, clumsy effects, sounding oceanic depths in the silliest of things. The pace of life, the square root of softly, productive clarity of sense and/or, and rent free traces of emphasis: shy rock. More shall be known, and loved, at the right time, such as it is. The knowing gods and martians.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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