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Words like bugs. Thousands. And they mate... forming new species of languages. And cognates. And slangs. They meld with the blur of time. Held by nails to hammer in the complete thoughts. And memories... together in an old mind of rotting wood. The nails connect the track which supports the train of thought. Soon, the bridge of rotting wood will give, and the nails rain down.... and land in haphazard order. Before this occurs, the blue print must be passed on. Or the train, too, will fall into the abyss.

If you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. I see you.