Words drift and glide above the edge of my sleep. In dream what is said is often far from clear. As I write I place one idea in front or behind another.
Language arrives as a thin line of meaning that makes its point before it stops. Language, written and said, is linear. It starts then ends. I can dip in and out of a conversation, but it cannot be heard all at once as a painting can be seen.
Language by its nature, as music, is a child of time.
. . .
Mike de Sousa
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