Words like little bricks or stones laid down one after another to build a ramshackle heap not resembling anything much at all except a vague intention, a vague imitation of an imitation of an incomprehensible altar to an unknown god. Uneven, unskilled brickwork, manufactured things salvaged from wrecks, used many times before, remembering grander structures from which they've been stolen, structures from another age, built by ill-fated giants, and now roughly packed together by a child. Many-purposed words bearing a dark history it is in the hesitant style with which they are placed, such myopia, the way they are laid against broken intention that speaks without saying anything, only that the same voice be heard, the signature in the act itself withdrawing whispering of words like little bricks or stones, a child's hand lifting and dropping into place one by one in an empty field at sunset drained of colour but for the weight, the feel, the soothing clack as they fall amongst each other. In the empty field.