Rimbaud moved past Elysium to the third floor. He considered Michel de Montaigne’s beard a complete waste of time. New World jungle Rimbaud flicked a gesture of unresistence, promulgated by the surety of bad habits. Pressing words forward like tribes, and therefore filtering, Montaigne sits at his desk. He holds a pen, minutes screw tighter, ideas in words spring. Rimbaud settles to this thought, his head in one place and not elsewhere. A picture of Rimbaud looks like an evasive clock.
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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