Speak of time in Paris, the Champs-Elysée so charming with efflorescence springing, freshest bread, spent cartridges of daily news. I and my chimpanzee, with singular notes avant-garde, stroll the streets in French. The relief of croissant in the haze of early, when morning constitutes milky coffee fixed, a plea of outright morning in the newbreaking. Certain world wars go by provoking abject gaze, cost-management. People hubbub the giddy sidewalks, pluvial. But not they are viable quite astonish. Chimp and I write words on napkins, to be released carelessly at the Tuileries, bird feathers. The Seine floats upon usage and bon mots. The war gave us threnody but never a care. Skyscrapers, a beauty, the academicians lunch.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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