The sentence unfolds. Is a way of unfolding. Is like that. And not this. Not now at least.
At last. One can always ask: is there anything else? Ideas unfold. Evolve? The moon appears to float, certainly.
So it is a question of movement then? As in one writes and then publishes and then another one reads? As leaves fall? One has an enduring memory of a sidewalk in 1985 in Burlington, Vermont on which brown leaves are pasted by rain. It does float, in a way.
In a way, the sentence does unfold. And passes? Becomes objectified, perhaps. So attention matters. Ceaselessness as well.
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