Friday, August 29, 2003

these days, we're not telling Beethoven anything. if there's is a grand French horn in the canon, we can't stick out our tongue officiously and with scuttlebutt behind our determination. Beethoven is a desperate frame, a risk always. we've been atop mountains for ages, listening to his draft. this is good, but not every planetary movement bequeaths such sweet emptying and wind over the hot valley. we see lights in the sky and distinguish them by weight. a shadow crosses the moon, then crosses back. the ploy works, for aliens are a time-tested engagement. even aliens have time.

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