Words in all their forms fail us as inevitably as our mortal flesh. Glyphs carved into pharaonic tombs fail to curse generations of graverobbers and wear away unvindicated. Handcopied manuscripts of apocryphal gospels survive the wormbitten centuries only to be decreed heretical and burned. Language as a living cultural construct shifts inexorably, abandoning words here and elevating words there.
 Truer to say that we, that I, and words are one and the same. In the beginning was the Word, and it was us/you/me. I am an ouroboros perpetually betraying myself. I am a lonely acolyte worshipping an absent god, perpetually, desperately and vainly trying to emulate its wondrous act of creation, but there is no performative utterance, there can be no speaking into being. I give myself over to the despair.
is a writer, a layabout, and a ne'er-do-well, soon to be an MFA student. He has previously been published in Squawk Back. He lives in Tucson, Arizona.