Words, words words, nothing but words, wordiness and wordishness composing the world. The world seems so paltry when made up all of words and phrases and sayings, proper or improper or whatever. Until you reach out for them–not with your hand but, again, with words, with words like hands–reach them, touch them all over and realize that these things, these coughs and sputterings of ours, have more texture, more dimension, more weight and significance than the heaviest flesh, that even our most humorous or cruelest or insanest ramblings all have something to them that moves and shakes the world, provides its vectors and its center, or centers, of gravity. Words, words words, nothing but words, forever, eternally–humorously, cruelly, insanely.
Love the Dust 