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The new paper stirs beneath kisses. Holding nothing a sky above reach. Flowers were her reckoning. Yet with regained skill they reach across railing to bask in morning approach. The things around being, he said, not theory, or so goes the theory. Friendship is transported in words and across, but best at table. Eating the poet was warned against. Don't look when below. But he does not listen. What does this mean for a period which moves beyond. A period ceases. I am tired of thinking. Writing is what absorbs. What is around one. The path through the forest. Leaves gradually filled offer some solace, attract us to the usage of language. Now that the report is out it is everywhere. A complex series of fold upon fold of irreality. The news which comes and goes. Transmission as territory also contracts and expands. Only change does not change someone said.

And then this would search for a form

Clearly the two levels are connected

We see this in the development of the egg

But the universe seems compressed
Do not look
Be silent