What you rise out of may not be dirt, but what you breathe must be air. On an indigo chart, we drive without a future, left to wish outside the forward rush of things. Who would not leave the mess for the illumination, the culture for the poem? Believe in inconstancy, a colorist. Forgetting the orangist is only a pomologist, not a painter sent home for lack of design. The night's a plateau. Where would we be in desert night, deserted. Constantinopilized. Oranged.


 

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