and then our exile

it is a question of understanding, the business of the greater war, most just. they come upon us in the night, the shadow of the valley of death for the living--and day, and even when sitting in the halls spread. easily these phrases spring, the rote of written and captured in caprice.
when they spring in the daylight among the marble columns they force an unwilling into the acceptance of difference, and the no-man's-land of personal indemnity stretching between.

"seldom has such been
and when it has been it has
brought wallowing constancy"

--

"ambiguity diversified", it is the easy tool of agents, writing they say comes later on, the wisdom to posit and tune into coherence of depth. but to serve the purpose because meaning chooses its devotees, if the world is not among them the concern is little of mine.

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1) fry the seeds of five green cardamom and some cinnamon in 1/3c butter.
2) add two cups of semolina (=smeed, suji, cream of wheat). stir till light brown. it will not change colour for a long time...and then will burn. do not let this happen.
3) boil a cup of sugar in 3.5 or 4 cups of water and pour this on the smeed. it will writhe in paroxysms of grief but do not let this deter you.
4) keep stirring till it thickens. add raisins and almonds.

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to help us realize: [here].