Ferngatz Lens

Words are not mere vessels of information; they are living, beating sixteenth notes, or maybe demisemiquavers on the grand staff of type-face. Every syllable rides a rowdy rhythm, every vowel a timbred pitch, every sentence an arpeggiated counterpoint, weaving against a melody of pronouns and predicates. Verbs should be believed, nouns need not kneel, adjectives objectify indirect objects. Paragraphs, perfect and pristine, quite rarely stand tall, unless viewing works exemplary yet zealous in their sweet, sweet music. The timpanist trusts his tuning in the way writers wish and want. Why just convey when with words you can play a symphony of syntax? Why simply state when you can relate the great songs of olden rhymes, cactus juice with ice and limes, breathing down from deep within refurbished pulp? Let literature live lest it lay, lazily lessening, love of living missing. Find sound, find song, find cantus firmis flying out from ink swashes. Make the mundane into music.