combinatorial papa pastures, green green grasses says yesses,

if the soil is below the grass, and the soil is brown and anyone who ever thinks about soil thinks of it in some version of brown, even that kind of memory black and white brown, greyscale brown,

yellow crane, white snow. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10

I, sometimes, do really have to hand it to "ten," I mean I could never think of ten as anything but ten. Now seven, I don't need seven. It could be 41 for all I am concerned. But ten's got the idea, it's close enough to 8 and 12 that who really cares about 15 or 5. I don't see anyone getting upset with 10.

And yet, on this side of the ocean, not this side, but that side, there exists some kind of paranoia towards that which grants more then less, which is a misunderstanding that there is never less than more.

The more is, that swelling agent, the growing moon (and to those in the know, and by knowledge I mean grace, all people when no people are implied.) the less is the receding current, the shrinking daylight.

But still, people gotta get riled up over one or the other. Luckily they never attack 10. Measurement is freedom. It's a tough step to take, to give in to the power of observation. But if you want to be free it requires the giving and the taking. The moon.

I can move one arm, and then another. You don't see me getting upset on my arms.  ¶ 12:06 PM