I'm a writer. A plague of words. That's my bodily structure. How I heave. Ventilate. You have a heap of words somewhere in your room, or in your chest of polished rosewood, and you know they will kill you either way: they will either bury you, obliterate your whimpers during the stone-cold dawn, weigh on you until you can breathe no longer, or they will drive into a feverish pace, propel you to outrun silence itself, exceed the very limits of your own consciousness, chase down the smoke trail of your melting core. Accepting this bodily structure, this perturbed composition is truly accepting the role death will play in your destiny. How language will first create you, then undo you. How silence will incite you to speak. When I realized I was a voice with a face that changed over time, a body that took on various shapes with each day, a system of signs orbiting around some perplexed form, I began appending words to a tree beyond my window (rigid, lean, bright, trimmed, translucent) until it multiplied, exceeded itself, flooded our suburban lawn with its infinite essence.
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