Decipher

How do we come to read and write--our perfect attempts at razing hell from our minds by means of examining ourselves in this universe--things awful and sometimes great. We're told, read the book as you would examine the empty pit, a trying and mealy-headed way of putting: You must entertain the idea of nothingness as you pursue the liverwort and seawall of narrative. We're told write it with the world in mind and keep honesty in the coat pocket for the announcement at the ball. We've been reading for a long time, and some have been reading to write for a long time. Read to write better. So the books line the walls, the amphitheater is built, a bestiary takes the stage and we've us a little niche we call a study. We'll read that Tomlinson had his way with a weary leopard named Jesus, and fought to stave off the threat of ongoing war. We'll strengthen our eyes with large tombs of tiny printed poems, and the flooring will one day become wet because we've left the window open and in all our years reading we can't imagine enough to see how dangerous the wet wood will become, the black mold seeping into the structure of the floor, the hidden tormentor of endless sickness and eventually we die.

He wants to cut the head off of the indignant bastard. No he doesn't. He wants to know how the dream came to be. He shakes in this. It's not a mystery. The book was written as anything else was written, the facts and time and place and people populate, and what's he supposed to glean from all this? It's not that. He staves off breathing for the thoughts around, and again, piecemeal toting, of the parts he can recall and organize, but only a few. If he begins to write something down it is only the thought of writing it down.