It seems weird to be talking about the process of words. I say weird because there is something of the uncanny in it, that words link to old things, happenings or lineages, maybe some thing you may have learned early, that someone may have passed on to you. But you don’t remember – did they, how did that happen? It is about passage, just as with the dead, they need to be companied until they go over. We don’t know what will happen but we believe the words and the shadows and harmonies, what resonances they leave. This says a lot about voice, but there’s a lot to say about space, about where and how the words are placed. Words have been placed a long time, on walls, and surfaces that will take them. No surface is flat and to add words, adds dimension. Tenses have dimensions, it’s to do with timing, not just the length of vowels and syllables, though that is an important part of it. There is also a colour that is hard to decipher. Though it’s not really a code, but a way of looking, a scanning of the day. To stand and watch how the words develop between people, how syllables wait. The breeze comes before other weather, it is the movement that becomes syllables, the bus brakes on the night’s avenue of bitumen, the way the lunar eclipse breaths up into the air that has been called the heavens. Some of this is empirical, you could stand and measure emissions, speech patterns, positions. These are at least graphable. You’re never lonely with the moon, we are always looking up, even into the daylight and see its familiar strange layout. Just as we touch each other.