I liked being able to type and have letters appear on the screen and then keep typing, seeing how long my imagination keeps running, how many words are in my head that I can effortlessly turn onto the screen.

Oh, now I lost it for a second.

But maybe there's still something left in the tank that I can type.

It never stops.

No, it never stops.

That worries me sometimes, that it just keeps coming. Almost as if you have too much inspiration and then something happens. Something you didn't see coming. And then you have to keep typing to let your head empty itself out. And if you don't, then something happens.

Something happens.

What happens then?

You don't get rid of that energy. You have an obsession for this one thing. Obsession—that one was on purpose. But I like the sound of making nothing. Watching my fingers tap, tap, tap. That bounded ride that is the keyboard, or whatever it's called.

That was on purpose.

That was on purpose.

That was on purpose.

And that's good sometimes, because otherwise you would type everything all at once. And then there would maybe be a problem. A problem. I did that on purpose to buy time.

But that slow part is exactly what I like.

Exactly what I like.

I didn't do that part on purpose to buy time. I still know exactly where we are. I keep typing.

No, because when it slows down like this, all the thoughts that feel like water don't just go splat onto the screen, onto the paper, all at once, without a boundary in them.

That means language is a brake. A way to limit reality.

Without language, everything would be everything.

But because language sits in between, we're forced to stop every now and then and listen to each other.

Language marks the edges of reality.

And through these sentences I have made reality—your reality—a little smaller for a moment. It was too big, but we've made it smaller now. And because of that we can walk around inside it.

Because otherwise everything would be everything.