The moral of verve is an abstraction of blinding candor. It’s thrilling to watch it happen. Each pound of it dreams a sexual hammer into total fish.
You can pull whatever meaning you want from a diamond, but the moral of it will not cure diabetes or polish the knob of a garrulous rapture.
The moral of gravity is self-evident. It all hangs on space.
The moral of energy sways in the wind of desire.
The moral of the oboe is in the breath of its reveries. Each note swarms with treasures of round sonority. Morsels of light scrounge for whispers among the leaves. The purity of an oak desk prefaces this excitement with a fable of laughable grain. The imagination crawls into a sound of painless expansion. The pleasure goes deep but the cartilage rides a hive of busy sensation. This must be perceived as digging, because there are cracks in the logic of dilation.
The moral of cuticles abounds in calculus.
The moral of speed causes the geometry of time and space to combine themselves in a herd of reindeer. Finland will be the better for it and the bells of Helsinki will confirm their circumference in the warrant of their sway.
The moral of letters is a creation of fingers and arms making movements on paper. It is a saga of passion, of crisis and contact. Hints of immortality open among the vowels. A harmonica displays its chrome to the maneuvers that go on in a mouth. This makes Bach and odd cantatas.
The moral of Tuesday is the elongation of Wednesday.
The moral of the violin perplexes the bravado of brass with ravenous pharmaceutical landscapes of varnish and string.
The moral of eyebrows worries the nails of gratification. They seize the fog of conjecture and challenge the glamour of Russian shampoo. Secrets rummage for sunlight. Buildings burst into regard. Bubbles console the ambitions of the unemployed and disenfranchised. For it is the moral of the bubble that reinforces the twinkle of ephemerality and renounces the hurry of commerce in a slow drift of highway cocoon.