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.
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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