What I can say is that words speak themselves: I am utterly—in being uttered—superfluous. Words have intention not merely derived from their speaker’s intention. Words are signs to transcendent referents all the while remaining immanently sense. Words are the crossroads of the dialectical problems of event and meaning, of sense and reference.
Words are phoneme, lexeme, and grapheme. Words bridge the gap between syntax and semantics. Words are the gap between what is said and what will never be expressed.
Words de-scribe what is written. Words fall away when meaning gives way. Words exteriorize themselves in endless self-referential wording. Words are the wording of the word.
The word of God is the exteriorization of the wor(l)d as God, the necessary confluence of word and world per God. If in the beginning is the Word, then infinite λόγος wor(l)ds God as whirlwind and storm and brimstone. God reigns down on our heads as pure word.
I languish in the languid language, this temple of being.
When I (last) lived in Germany, I grew tired of words (grew tired of me) and attempted to use immediate, nonlinguistic semantics to dis-course with myself. I tried sound and tone. I attempted color and hue. Always returning ceaselessly to the ever-ceasing, ever-increasing word that subsumes all that is said and that which will never be said.
Now it’s time for me to hold my tongue.