Chains of words will bound forward, as they have before. Chains of words will bind, enabling and restricting thoughts as always. Writing: the next abstraction. In the car I won’t be able to help myself, vomiting words onto my notebook. I will write, I will write, I will write. I will get carsick, ask her to pull over, vomit in the grass. This is a prophecy: by then I will have been being bound, burdened by manifest syntax.
There is a weight in words, and their combinations. There is a war in words, and their annexations. One word bounds over the trench, gouging out, with his thumbs, the eyes of the next. To the first word: what did it feel like? Later his little grandwords sit on his lap and inquire. It all flashes back to him: the mud, the lice, the arbitrary. Hell.
We can only speculate about what the first word felt like; empirical evidence is scarce. The first semantic vocalization—a miracle! To be sent and received? But really we know that there was no first. Evolutions dawdled. Back then I languished, longing to be extinguished. So sweet: workless, weightless, wordless. I longed to be nothingness, silence, but discovered that suicide required I—the first person. But really we know that there was no first.