A sentence written is a sentence haunted.
To write: to slice as deep as a page’s bones, to stain its fibers with that spider-eyed black, to brand its hide with the sharp searing of a thin, hot iron. A writer is a semantic sadist, gleefully preparing the tied-and-bound letters on his page for their nigh-inevitable digestion in the belly of some higher order of meaning.
Reading: hegemonic beeping in the sweaty kitchen of a fast-food restaurant, black billboards and red bodies streaking by the side windows of a domestic SUV, the high-pitched squealing of a deteriorating tape as it is rewound.
“Meaning” is a sixteen-eyed insect-tyrant served by nine choirs of painfully ambiguous silence.