Sentence

 

The sentence goes along nicely until, nearing the end, the sentence explodes. This sentence, for example, is just about to disintegrate. Conversations between sentences display the same proclivity to blow up upon conclusion. All good things come to an end, the sentence states, demonstrably. Sentences like walls that fall with the city they surround. While some say this is nihilism run rampant, others argue that all sentences have an in-built timer that goes off right near the full-stop. Or, as Americans say, right near the end, period. Sentences snap, crackle and pop like a long-running serial. Sentences break the speed limit to arrive first at the delete key. Artificial Inelegance generates thousands of new sentences in oh point one seconds none of which will survive disappearing without trace upon completion and without warning in less than oh point one seconds. Potential readers are none the wiser as Artificial Interference forthcomes new locutions for unknown so-decreed interfacers that unforthwent in a puff of smoke. A sentence attempts to contain a ‘puff of smoke’ within its limits, transitorily. The sentences have not been uttered that endure no longer than their duration before meeting unutterable ignominy. This cannot be said often enough, the sentences passing the vanishing point. Sentences fog up only to evaporate in midmorning sun. Well that’s one thing, but this sentence is a paper boat about to capsize into its own end point. And here is a sentence that through no fault of its own is about to go in the deep end. Generations of words are sentenced without trial to dissolution. Then there are sentences that no sooner generated perform the ultimate disappearing act: they remain permanently unread. The human race of poets, writing as if they have everything to lose, lose everything. Their sentences of exorbitant length and prolixity come abruptly to an end, dissolving before their eyes at the moment of closure. Artificial Indifference announces the dearth of the author, ending in a bang, a whimper, an unplug, no apology, no explanation. Sentences repeated ad infinitum item by item, their reverberations in the air conclude without echo. Words that stick in the throat resemble words that never reached the page. A sentence has a visual way of describing a river flowing into the sea. Snow melted from sight, like unread sentences. Dying words, by definition, end in ellipsis. Anyway, people with heartbreak want the heartbreak to end, like a sentence of calm authority. Likewise, there’s the need for a sentence that says it all, regardless of all this talk about exploding sentences. Verily there are sentences that get straight to the point, sentences witha definite end in view. There is an internal necessity to make definitive sentences, even as they cascade over the edge of the world.