Fear on the logging road that tracks the old potato field (next to the frozen pond). Overhead, stars flicker heedlessly. One walks as if into a painting, as if some artist or authority had made this in a state of intense, almost divine, love. Understanding this or that social setting is not critical. We fumble, we make do.
We approach writing a certain way, as a process in which product is not valuable, not saleable. But malleable? Historically, our preference for gold is a function of the fact that it gleams in sunlight and yields readily to heat. We want to measure. We want our treasure.
While later, one assumed the stance of one who wears a frock coat. The past is never not with us. One prefers the abstract to the dense text that often follows. Pull yourself together! My boot strings broke and I cobbled together something else for the long walk that winter morning.
If you can't make room for your fleas then you can forget about enlightenment. A blanket is helpful against the cold, dust that's visible in the moonlight can help you recall old friends. I mentioned fear and I'd like to retract it. Retrace it? It passes is all I am saying.
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