A conversation with myself.

"Words are parted by letters, sentences by words, and stories then by sentences - the sum is greater than its parts because they're all symbols, just lines and sweet mother hooks waiting for recognition. It all means something because we know what it means! That's the beauty of language, brother - we all have one. It's partly, majorly, the structure of it, the architecture of lines like beams, rafters... lying in a pile, it's just rubbish but nail it together in a sensical form and then dammit you've got something. Clean lines, Roark-lines, decorated doe-eyed poetic rambling curve lines, fucking Euclidean geometry of the words to say something not just in definition but in form. Where do they lie? What order? Draw 'em up, sketch the sweet mother symbols like glyphs to decode... unravel the people you know because everyone's got a language, everyone's got their symbols and we just need each other's books as invisible keys. 'Stone dogs of metallic night sat dipping legs into ponds, they were snakes through mirrors with enamelled teeth, snapping at microbes to eat the roots of far-gotten paragraphs. America is destined to be a flatland, a cold autumn of stone dogs dripping with words, cattail roots, silverfish, going to heavenly gaping jaws.' What does it mean?"