A text is but the bending of many lines. A white page filed with black bending and rigid too lines is but a illusion which means actually nothing. We give meanings to the meaningless and call ourselves to have deeper meaning.
If words have no meaning besides the meaning we give to them, and if everything comprised of the same infinite amount of bending and poking lines what we call an object? What then becomes of an object once the lines are unraveled? What becomes of us if the lines that form the outlines of our form are unraveled? What are we if we are nothing but an assumption of proper form? What if we are not proper but that we simply cannot fathom the error of us because they extend past the limits of our intellect? Nonetheless, what becomes of anything once we see the lines, and reveal the bending of light that forms it? Does this take the magic of interest and meaning from all things?