I live, surrounded by text. When I’m not reading a book, I’m reading a paper. When I’m not reading a paper, I’m reading the web. I swim, nay drown, in a sea of text, with little hope of respite or solace of shore. My existence is circumscribed by glyphs, punctuated by symbols, and death I think is no parenthesis. And what do I have to show for it? Deteriorating eyesight, collapsing memory, and back problems from hauling the text around. I wonder what it is to exist in a world devoid of these strange markings, obscure and oft inscrutable.

“The white of the paper is an artifice that’s replaced the translucency of parchment and the ochre surface of clay tablets; both the ochre and the translucency and the whiteness may posess more reality than the signs that mar them.” – Jean Genet

Deep thoughts for a not-deep evening.

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