Friday, August 1, 2014

The Sentence

 It’s like digging with your hands through the mud for a slippery animal that keeps wriggling just out of reach; it’s like clawing through the muck for prey that keeps slipping out of your grip; it’s like frantically trying to grab some squirming creature before it disappears into the murky depths; it’s like scrabbling and screaming and trying to get a grip on this thing that will not be gripped, that lives to slide and slip through your fingers, lives to wiggle away from you, gleefully maddeningly burrowing for safety, forever eluding you into the greasy crud, the primordial ooze, the proverbial mud, a string of words that dissolves into pre-verbal slime.

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