SlurWhen I played tuba in my high school orchestra, the notes blended together smoothly, velvetly. We were one voice and our audience was the target.
The books I’ve read, both comics and straight literature, contained millions of words in various formats. I’ve lived my life studying the written page, and it all breaks down to 26 letters in various combinations. You’d think by now we’d have more letters at least.
I’ve spoken billions upon billions of words, mostly pronounced correctly, mostly in English, some were from the page and some from my imagination.
I’ve dreamed amongst the best of them, fantasy and nightmares beyond reason or explaination. But can I tell you what I dreamed of last night, not a chance.
People have drifted into and out of my life on a daily basis, recalling their names if a gun was put to my head would lead to a quick death.
It seems to me this is all based on memory, and mine is faulty. Regurgitation of facts, poems, notes and melodies, nomenclature and fiction seems to be a poor way to truly live.