It is now, upon this wall, that I realise the overwhelming amount of air and words I have wasted. They are lost and I can't even begin to contemplate a way of finding them again. It has become clear that I wasn't ready, for I still yearn for a secret road to the past, one that can guide me to the beginning of silence. And if I could only take a quick view, a glimpse of my primordial mistake, I would definitely create some physical and true place that could allow ideas to be independent from each other, so the project of communication would in fact have a point and a tiny possibility. But my ideas are broken, promiscuous, obsessed with each other. And intangible.
So words can't be created.
In my mind there is only a swamp and my voice is a hiss.
I wasn't ready.
I am definitely not ready.
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