Language is reality. It is an arbitrary creation, an interior projection, a list of clever nouns and images. Do we really only know the things we can speak? The things we are able to articulate? Such things would seem to require a massive vocabulary, words we have not created yet for things we have not yet seen.

Is there really a difference between illusion? Both are thought and felt and said, pronounced, playing off each other.

And those things that are not said, do they die? Do they fall from our synapses like autumn leaves, decaying, forgotten? Because there is that smile, taken from a side glance, out of pure amusement and knowingness, and beyond this, I have not a word for its affect on me. Recognition. Intimacy. Unfaithful.