I'm reading, thinking, doing, watching, all this I stop, and I write, scratch symbols into life. Not this, as digital simulation is not the same. It is not real, just virtual, it holds no power. I write, on the page, with ink like blood it flows into indentations made by my chisel. It is sacrifice, the giving of one's breath to the symbols, each one etched into linen or wood or stone. To be transferred, read, by unseen energy into the universe, or sung by voices unheard. A line, a dot, a pictograph, a hieroglyph, a cuneiform, letters as we call them, words we give them names, but who are we to know the language of the universe, the sounds we hear but know not their meaning, as foreign to our deaf ears as the call of the lioness, or the sparrow, or the hiss of the snake. You cannot breathe these digital points of light. You cannot drink its electric impulses, though you feel them in your empty brains. Hear the echo of its signature as it dances acro...
