the sea is too much. the sea rules all that I know. the sea is open everywhere, yet impossible to be entered. I wash away the sand. I dry those shells. somehow I no longer crave them, between the waves, shells were scattered on the beach. just as I no longer greet thoughts polished by language. some are picked up. they have nothing to say but themselves. they are reticent, as if unspoken. some half-buried in the sand. language emerges from the void between words. some carried away by the waves, never to return. prefer the moment when words approach each other. each shell is different. a fragmented idea. writing, speaking, listening, reading. words that appear in one's mind. communicating. language gestures. the collected ones become describable. I undo language. sometimes its absence. those that remain on the shore, if not picked up, would be swept away by the next wave and forgotten. I want language fractured. indistinct. I presume. my language and creations are temporary and flawed. sand clings to the shells. linguistic disobedience.