I am proposed, later, in the afternoon, between the eventual close of the store and the opening of the harbor, the lighting of the gas lamps in districts that have been continually noted, diagrammed as (quite appropriately)—the sprawl. They are, aptly noticed, as one man in painful and remorseful dance, himself an elliptical outline, a shout, an outward urge of betrayal—to commerce, trade, proportions. Both his legs quite ill, cramped, and he, in one quick and feverish motion, refuses, refused, is in refusal. He is yet unstill. I am deposed by poetry, after, and he is yet unstill, one hand unstill—one hand is in static motion, if ever this were (obscene as it must be!) purposeful, possible.
The towns wrap in and out of the basin like the image of the man. My declarations submit the general glare and inconsistency and needlessness of eventual ascension, social ascension. The looming (and, I admit woefully, beautification) is erratic, claiming indecision—needlessness. Without grammatical indecision—yes, yes, without grammatical indecision. The ultimate trajectory is limited and overwhelmed by absence. It is not the arrival of success that is known, predicted. We have no foresight and no awareness of the rise of success. At once it is a perpetual evolution that is only predicted and monitored by fatigue, lack, missing.
There is only ever missing in each pursuit. The rest, the remaining, lie without lack, lay without explosion. To lie, without regret. Alas, our patricide is our technological snowstorm. It is too cold. It is far too cold. It is only ever far too cold.