56-facts for visitors

Swaths of fabric, contextualizing her body, her folds. Rising, falling with each breath, each shimmer a void. Bending down to my notebook and beginning to write, the ink bleeding into the page, giving life. I wonder: If the words I am writing, believing, overlap and become one, woudl the blackness be the same? Would the words have meaning, purpose, desire? Each letter a penumbra in the multitude of existence on the page. Each word written; made of the same ink, the same atoms, the same. Then, the power of language is decode this sameness, the purpose to decipher. Isn't it? If language is a construct, then who's to say what you're reading is what I mean? A transcendental equation in its finist: you can't know what I mean without reading my words, but my words are created by my language, thoughts. If a could be the same as q then how would you know what quail meant? Equivalent? I think not. A sparkle hits my eye, reflection of the self in the emptiness. Knowledge, at last.