…and who cares if later on the pages come loose in the wind, for the wind is the reader of all such things, who cares if the earth turns far away from me like some blue orb, I know that from now on my happiness will stay right here, in the process of choosing one word and then another, and the space separating them, thereby stretching out the thread until the very last word, which I will write trembling with joy and apprehension, a final trace across the blankness of the sky.
{Francois Emmanuel, The End of Prose}
