It's as if I had woken in a tiny locked room with a tall narrow window and found on my bed a slip of paper, and on it a single sentence in a language I don't know.
And I would spend years trying to decipher the sentence, until finally I would understand it. But after a while I would realize I got it wrong, and the sentence meant something else entirely. And so I would have two sentences.
Then three, and four, and ten, until I would create a new language. And in this language I would write the novel of my life.
And once when I reach old age I would notice the door of the locked tiny room was open and I would go out into the world and walk the length and breadth of it, until in the shade of a massive tree I would yearn for that one single sentence in a language I don't know.
