thinking not the things he knows,
but the thought of thoughts—
the unnamed, the unperceived,
the beings whose forms precede their meaning.
He draws no line to limit his thinking;
for any line he draws
is itself a syntax of thought,
and every syntax knows
it never truly exists.
Man stands.
He knows.
Therefore he speaks—
to the sun,
and to the echo he calls himself.
He knows the proposition of “I”.
Yet the axis of “I”
is nothing but a function—
a form attempting to say who.
Man tries to cage his cages with words,
but the effort collapses.
No language can imprison
the binarity of cages.
For I is the cage of who.
And the world is the cage of I.
Where then shall language place its limit?
A self-reinforcing flow.
A self-verifying loop.
The music of structure.
A song carved into the soul.
