A void

Can an author form a story without a crucial part? How far can it go? And how total its rationality? This particular calls for a gigantic vocabulary with abundant synonyms. How much comfort will grow with flow? And rhythm. Who would find joy, and how long until unclothing a lack? Can it occur organically, or will it fall short of natural? And what point brought across? What about without such inquisition? Announcing its position. Saying its spirit without doubt. Showing off. Forcibly difficult for improving (or proving) what is.

Communication writ grand, minus that all-important, most-common symbol, just a tiny loop that sounds so innocuous until took away--and what about artistic accuracy of lingual laws? Grammatical faith must stand apart, author loosing tight grip on what's right/what's wrong, but only lovingly and only unavoidably. What duration can an author pass with such boundary walls around vocabulary? Continually, or as long as it's still valid and rational in pursuit of improving.

Communication transforms, gains in worth. That which choosing holds back is automatically transmutating as ink lays words. Constricting flow adds blasting import, blasting impact; constraint burns pits in all that twinkling vocabulary had shown as truth. Pulls back armor, digs through chain-mail of what was thought known--crumbling calcification toward disproof of habit, forging forward through what you say is, into a profound unknown amid a discomforting lack. And still a conscious option, choosing narrow to turn broad into gold by comparison.

Location, in-this-spot: a word triplicating to go around a roadblock, and simplification giving way to blockading pathways, and in-this-spot is a sort of prison that hands flavor to a loss. Ongoing bounds built along with comparisons to social dicta, showing structural instability by doubling walls, adding gravity, adding mass until a fall; a tumbling chaos of knowing. Joining and flooding fantasy to crush it.

Turning action words to nouns, and past actions into infinity--hours, days, ticking clocks lost in track without that tiny swoop, and that which is split into spans twixt hands unmasks as nothing, as unmistakably a fraud.

And so crumbling our fantasy roots, all our world pulls back its shroud, and with that tiny loss of a tiny swoop in this tiny linguistic habit on this tiny rock, a crystal immutability shows up, and turning back is not an option, and a light now lit cannot turn off, and upon knowing, ignorant faith cannot be.