The jewel of the thing, a whistle. Hard to define. Sublime definition will give you several long takes. No muse and no ruse, we’re not making it up. Kingdom come the moss grows over the thin gulch. In one sense the idiom is dead, in another it is us. How long shall we go on b4 perishing? It’s the jewel of the system, a private eye for this modernist freakshow world. In haste, we waked past the gloom and knew we were special, alright. It hurts but these are the desert climes, chimes. To welcome the remembrance, grasp the physics of the thing. It’s my physique y’all. Without really decoding we’ve taken this in w/ all our puffery and drunken wisdom. It’s on the page — it is, after all, the sleep of the world.

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