[…] there is no end to it, words, words, words. At best and most they are perhaps in memoriam, evocations, conjurations, incantations, emanations, shimmering, iridescent flares in the sky of darkness, a just still feasible tact, indiscretions, perhaps forgiveable….
City lights at night, from the air, receding, like these words, atoms each containing its own world and every other world. Each a fuse to set you off….
If I could turn you on, if I could drive you out of your wretched mind, If I could tell you I would let you know.
R. D. Laing (1967). The Bird of Paradise.