Friedrich Nietzsche was a pinpoint of desultory light. In words he whirled something something time. Richard Wagner was a scathing flack with anti-Semitic shoes. The roof over each of his operas smelled of lumps.
These salients start to sound like pigment. There exists a manner of inquiry in which the word becomes a blow dart stuck in a cactus. Neither blow dart nor cactus exists, but the word remains. It must be anti-Semitic to be so enduring.
The people of light, who wish they were dandruff on Newt Gingrich’s flaky head, decide to speak more words. Ponds of words. More words daily, like porridge, like tribunal, like slavery as a mask for penance.
Choice of cambric remarks upon the detail by which we enumerate the placement of yet another word instills a sense of document. Every word finds a pinpoint of light. Humans discover ways to share their dismay.