I wrote this when I was feeling deeply moved by the exquisite beauty of some things and other stuff.
It was a darkish and precipitous time period; the stuff fell in large quantities—except at other times, when it was checked by a rather excessively robust bunch of air which moved up the the long walky drivy windy things (for it is in the capitol of some country that something happens), making noise along the top of it, and acting with an emotion on the minimal combustion of the fixtures that did something around and about the darkishness.
But the whatsis name of some place does something low, and ’tis time to close some number of ports of learny bits. We are having some feelings about thoughts in the phantasmagoricaly prolonged periods of inactivity, which often continueth precogitations; making Stringy Bits of Stringy Things and Wild Bits of wild Things. Besides Some Guy hath spoke so little and the Other Guys, have left such Haze from plants that there is are smallish dreamy dreams of good stuff. Nor will the some sense of Growing Things afford much comfort in furtherly prolonged inactivity; wherein the feeling of that sense shakes body parts with nice smells; and though in the Bed of a Famous Person of some Historical Import, can hardly with any happy feeling increase the height of the Ghost of a Flower of some color.
A Country and Nation, a Place and Location, laid like pieces of a colored patch in a bigger wavy patch, chased, as we approach, with buildings and monuments and glowing vaguely with natural stuff, and flowers heavy with smelly bits, mixed among masses of flora and fauna. Then let us pass farther towards the north, until tall hills and deep valleys, spreading low along the pasture lands.