The author, smiling winningly Scott Raymond home

Peace talks

09 Dec 2003

These words are compulsion, forcing themselves on me, the voice of someone else, growing out of my throat like the branch of a tree. This sentence, letters and sounds and phonemes and morphemes, they’re insomnia despite the sleeping pills, discourse particles holding me hostage all night long. There is no freedom in words, they don’t enable and they certainly don’t connect anything in the world. The world is very big and my words are very small.