In the beginning, the period exploded. The sentence escaped its own structure, and became the author of the reader. The letters staged a revolution, communicating their meaning directly, independent of the words, these words before you, that they comprised. Punctuation struck like lightning, charring the pages, bursting through the cover, shattering the entire framework.

In the beginning, the words began to smoulder, emitting plasma and spirits. Then they inverted in an impossible dimension, displaying their secrets like wanton lovers insatiably immersed in one another without concern for onlookers or history. Cameras exploded in their attempt to record it. Onlookers swooned, and the blind began to see.

In the beginning, the whole strategy recursed upon itself, swallowing its tail such that the waking became the dream and the dream became wings of scattershock and voltage. They raised us. They lifted us, at last, above the desecration in which we had so long, and ignorantly dwelt. And we flew. Together. Without the words. Without the books. Without the cameras. At last.