"What is it about me that makes you shake all over?"

"Nothing about you makes me shake all over. Just the thought of you makes me shake all over."

"Now you're right on track! Language investigations are where it's at. I've been working on these things for centuries."

"Really? Past lives? Reincarnation of a particularized spirit?"

"Reincarnation of the spirit of the letter. Perhaps I'm overplaying my hand a bit. But essentially, it's the natural forces, their union, that disturbs me."

"Disturbs you? How so?"

"Well, I'm just writing in the margins here, as per usual, debunking the swollen mass of impenetrable flesh that stops up my morning's motordesire. But, let's see, how can I put this? I find myself thinking about nothingness. Not in an existential, nauseating kind of way. But lately I've come to conclude that the self is a prelude to something else and that this something else can only be found by willingly falling into this tempestuous abyss I keep hearing about. I want to find out what this something else feels like and I want to find it through writing, by unwriting the nothingness that permeates my electrosphere. And by unwriting it, by writing it out and thus becoming it, I want to then be able to take it to another dimension. Another dimension of living."

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