A shrub speaks to me, recites poetry to me; beautiful words:
"Men got where pristine Philistinism,
whom then-was." I also think the shrub is cute and moral,
like the Book of Great Things that
every baby is born reading.
The shrub rebuts himself, says words of logical stress:
"I could apprehend you, but I'm finished
with all of that;" I don't understand him, for he is
too complex for me to understand.
His words climb desks.
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