The triumph of the merely human over the abstraction of ideas.
If all thought is a landscape then words are the houses we are contained by. The offer us shelter, perspective, cut the world down to our size. We sit on the porch, watch the sunrise, and pretend that the act of seeing makes it all ours, but the idea is still there when we turn away, stretching away to a conclusion we can barely imagine and never reach, and meanwhile the night howls at our door and we would be lost without these words to keep us safe.
If you see me from your window, wave.
Just finished reading Don DeLillo's new novel. An arrangement of hypnotic gestures in search of an idea.