In what world do you think I would say such a thing? We waded through possibilities to absurdity’s shore. In youth, I often ran through fearsome rows of corn. That is not metaphor. Primary trouble rests its case. People were after monuments: Less talk, more rock. A neighbor nearly knifed me open for others to see. Words are atoms beaten by myriad uses and abuses. Sweet inevitable, make yourself useful, sing without Purpose, and time things out in such a way that when You speak your mind over matter, with catastrophic Drawl, beautify the plural—its interstices so radiantly Untrue, a figurehead for all, rinsed of the workaday Symbols and the impermeable occlusions of power, Twice-told tales with pages of explanatory notes.

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