(...)

Someone is telling the story. Someone must be telling the story. Because there are words floating through things, over them, all around them. Words transparent, translucent, opaque. Or the things themselves are just words floating. Someone or something is speaking. Just this thought by itself is huge faith. But the man twisted in the wheelchair doesn't believe that. What is this I shove down my gullet as sustenance, soil through an earthworm? The metaphor is not exact. I only open my mouth and the sound resonates from the open orifice of the upper half of my corpus. Corpus to corpse. To accomplish the change all that is required is elision. One syllable slips out. Corpus collapses to corpse. Yet, I don't feel I radiate language as much as I consume it, even when I am speaking. I feel as though the sound vibrating in my thoracic cavity is burrowing back into me when I speak. It's not flowing out, the lines in an illustration of a megaphone. Why this strange reversal of sound? But someone or something is speaking. Even if sound is reversed. A sense of agency or urgency? That words like agency and urgency exist? Language is an agency filled with agencies. Agents infiltrate foreign agencies. I see foreign agents everywhere. Language only ever knows anything because it is paranoid. Some fear heightens the threshold of recognition and evolution occurs. Language is afraid of the human animal. If you sniff it very close, put your face over the face of a stranger, you can smell it. Don't look into the stranger's eyes. Look into the stranger's mouth.