All laying about--still with no thing to say. One more fix pushed to the line. What is this place, anyway--just a few clicks? There is a referential map, but when is the burden passed on? When is the subject relinquished?
What remains even? Finebaum pressure builds. /lit/ has faded. The Packers are back. Nothing more about that. I just want this all back the way it was before. I want the music again. I want animus of exploration. And to never tire so. Pack up, a trip to the factory. A season reaching new and perfect twilight--the imagined form bounce-broadening into the widest verse; sight shifted maximum to the back end.
Stay just a little longer. It's the underground now--a single fairway, one swing. The dominant style cruises to a new peak. A stiff angle across shaded bright wood. Unleash the beginners. The sight is there now. They stand faced away in The One's Great Design. The poet host of material lurches to a last gasp, where we cast down our schoolbooks one last time.
Why'd we have them anyway? Our dreams, at caffeine maximum, spout the stylings against the real. I know these things, certified reference points in our greed--summer meadows.
What do I lean into? One stable substance to pour onto... How to use but not optimize?
