Where, then, you witch, did I lose that I am an outcrop of the land, and all the things about me—are prominences risen from the total—and the differentiation they vaunt—is another thing again speaking through them—that all voices have different faces, but their tails are all tied together—and each voice only issues on its appointed rail from its appointed chute—and why is my voice telling me this—that its tail moves unfettered, and that it can fly from my throat, fly wherever it will? And if it could (I scolded it), it would be bolted still, to the turning wheel of wind—
-2002
