Glyph by Percival Everett

But they were what they were, sadly, and that was speakers and or them infinity moved only in one direction and so it was only faith that had them believe that it actually existed. They peered ahead at the horizon and decided that the limit of their vision was merely the limit of their vision, accepting that the edge moved away with each step towards the horizon, assuming that their inability to define or delimit the limit itself did not negate the actuality of that limit. And so they kept looking at something that was not there, but that was also there forever, a kind of double gesture, la double séance, if you will, and they called it beautiful. If not insane, they were at least dangerous.

And I do mean speech here and not language. Language was no more the villian than she and no less she than herself, as with me, as with you, but she spoke it with her lips and so, built a fence, a gap, which like the Stygian can be crossed but once.

I do not say ‘made love’. They no more made love than they made sex or made me. If I drop a hammer, it falls to the floor. I may drop it to the floor, but I do not make it drop to the floor.

Boredom is finally and affirmation of everything, but and admission of nothing.

She cries and the darkness in her swells ever greater and so, oddly, she is fed by it, the sickness, fed by the thing that kills her. But isn’t that the human way? Kill the lamb for meat. Kill yourself for truth.

Christian eschatology appears in two forms, one personal, the other cosmic. When a person dies, it’s like a world ending. But what is an ending, except for a narrative device, a trick of language that would have one accept the distances between sounds and the signs representing them, between denotation and connotation. (Aquinas)

So I replaced the dream with the novel, stripiing the stories of my dreams of any real meaning, but causing the form of them to mean everything. (And so I assume, nothing, as nothing can actually mean everything.)

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