Read it, pain is a momentary agreement of feeling within time as a marvel. Intersecting lines meet without volition, smack that second. Whitehead wrote something in a clearing, illustrating something and a clearing. We went along, together, brillianting and set. Love wholly covers while owing nothing. Hearing a set tune, a folk astonishment, a meeting place, something written in a reach. The time now is just the time now, here so we can at this morning now, once more.
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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