Can: and for cans:
When is art and when is the question.
When is the planet and when is interpretation.
Presentation. Neatness. Aquirre. Retention.
A cart moves across the field all by itself. Did it move?
A philosopher makes his grades and tells the angel his name isn't real. Did it move?
A philosopher makes his speeches and tweaks his canvas. He says he knows people everywhere. Even on high planets. Did it move?
Did the planet move by the philosopher when it was condemned? Or was it the angel.
Did the flying debris of the planet blown to bits still floating space contain hidden sparks? Sparks and to sparks when?
When debris like planets over roam and still scare themselves to bits then hold those eyes into forever. Into nothing forever.
Plants and animals and explantations. The philosopher did his homework. His grades did this. He made all there is. It created all there is.
Wrong.
All horizons and bisons that float. Off cliffs and off moats. To a distant shore. To a distant call. To all there where is.
All distances and roam numbers calculate the philosopher has and does. All he kept and every lifetime he was. Everytime he never was too.
Everything he never made and all he never cried for or about.
Everything he never did and all.
When he held that sail unto us and said those useless things. Things that bothered us. Things that always did.
=-|.
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