Letters are nonsense. Sound. The back static of a radio. And they mean nothing until they’re put together. There’s this sound on my tongue, and it means to tell you something, anything, a creation. It means to give you an idea, grab your own mind and insert it into mine. It’s sitting on my tongue, trying to be spoken, but I feel like it might slip off. I feel like the letters will fall apart in front of my face. What if I could open a word? What if I could pull apart the letters and break them into the smaller pieces of the world? What if I could look inside the words you give me and see all the thoughts anybody has ever had about that word, that sound? Would it mean more? Does it ever mean enough? It’s sitting on my tongue now; and it won’t mean the same thing when it reaches your ears. But I want to give you this word anyway. I want to put it in your hands and allow you to take it. I don’t want to say it.
