I have written more than I have read and I have been silent more than I have written. Of the three activities, the first two have been meager, almost insignificant; only the third has been vast. 

The vastness of my silence. 

My silence is vast. 

Silence is my work. If I write, it is to produce fragile rafts that allow me to lie down on that vast sea. But it is the sea, not the rafts, I want beneath me. If I read, it is to find, hidden behind clumsy scribbles, the mute voice of my only friend. It stares at me. It knows.

Words guess, they don't know. When I produce words-that-know I leave language, I am admitted in that boundless empire of loose colors, textures, murmurs. I enter the eternal, the communal. I become my words.

The writer vanishes. Silence remains.