Completion Falsifies, Apprehension Renews

What is written is not what it is, but what is in it. A thin sheet of paper covered with cramped, rushed letters, a thick, type-written manuscript, a novel enclosed in hard covers, a poem, an experiment, a work of profound brilliance... Completion falsifies, but apprehension renews. One must write to be read, to be taken apart after having built. In the days when literature was spoken, there was no pause in which the words could gel and form a thing that was not themselves, there was no publisher and no descriptions on back covers, there was only the long flow of new-formed being. We bind ourselves within our pages and someone must free us. The freeing is not only in the opening and the reading but it is in the soaking. I want to change the world I can't bear to live in. But who would care to free me, when no one even turns in the street to look at me?