The pen put to paper. Jet black ink, strips of the night sky, the space between the floors. When it was good, then each letter of every word vibrated. All of them together in unison created an ambient hum that filled my studio.
Each letter and vowel shook harder and harder. Not tortuously but with the innate sensuality as occurs in true, perfect sentences. With a steady increase the sides of every letter began to crack. Pieces fell off, leaving jagged edged holes from which sprout little wings. They flutter around the page breaking off into groups of various sizes, each with its own meaning.
Their migratory patterns fill page after page. At night these word-birds sleep, their plumage speckled with punctuation marks.
An affirmation of us. There is once again the secret language. I do not reveal too much by saying so to myself. Besides, I like the rhythm of the sentence. The cadence had variations as its being said several times in my head.
The bed is the paper, contorted, entwined limbs, the words. It is mostly vowels; the breathing and panting too contribute to the linguistics of our predawn struggles. I speak not for myself but to you, so that we may remember.
- Wayne H.W Wolfson 2016
A reissue of Wayne's first collection of essays is now available: