“As if from some fluid metainferences about this becoming, and that, my imagination’s muse has washed down from the specter of these, my considerations, all the ulterior renderings of purpose that I had girded up — and which were only sand, piles of deteriorating and futile fortresses, fantasy that had no extension in any viable future.” … And so, what did I say? It was as if I moved my mouth and things came out, didn’t it seem so? It was about loss, if I remember, what has just passed, about some water that was not specifically stated. It was about illusion, which was mentioned as sand — about illusions of what was thought to be, about what I understood as what was meant to be for me. And there it is, beginning with the made-up word, starting with “meta”, and which one supposes could have meaning as it may have been intended: possible answers about the answering itself, about how things change.

But what was I trying to say? I forgot to mention the inspiration, and perhaps it had to do with the statement itself that I was making, if one were to put it under a psychoanalysis of verbiage — but let me not start again with the flowery prose. I was inspired to deconstruct what I had been thinking, about where I was going, and implicitly, I was wondering to what end I was doing what I do. For it is such with many of the castles we erect to house the dreams that propel us: that they are made of such stuff that the most casual of cleansing thought (any pure stream of reasoning) will carry off with its current all that we thought was bearing the load. And all we have left is the ghost of our decisions. But I suppose the one thing that is missing from all this is the hope: so let me end it with something I leave you to figure out on your own, that picks up right after the word “future”, above (with humor): “Or so it seemed.”