The American Songbook has motors for luscious hills, gleaming grains. Apparatchik elders’ fall is a warning, hiss-able, going monochrome in uglified loveliness besieged by entertainment.
We sometimes need fresh lexicon to wangle a way to reset the mind-body problem, irruptive words to determine their own landscape, items like primality and cuboidal glints of music, human commination over heaven, akin to the great abstractions around technical ambiguities. Never far away strove the steady salmon through jagged streams, eating air, rounding out a shiny net!