The strings of words pierce the space on radio waves, fold into books, hide in CDS and microfiches and wave to us from banners pulled by crop dusters. They shake our air with acoustic booms of contraction and rarefaction. They carry meanings; at least some of them, while others are just pollution, toxic noise. Some words will stay with you for the rest of your life, like the first word of your baby. Or like the last words of your loved one. Words give life and words take life away.
'I'll always be a word man, better than a bird man'. (1)
If there would be a contest of numbers between words ever spoken and words ever written, I bet the first will win by a landslide. Yet, if we will take each and every spoken or written word with a denominator of merit, which comes out of a meaning, then, I believe the result will be opposite - the word written will beat the word spoken, for too many are uttered in vain, in a pointless banter, or as effete ejaculations of muddled minds.
A few people had written more words than they had said. But, take each one of them and you’ll rarely find a chatterer - the writers are generally a taciturn lot. Why is it like that? I guess that's their way of being thrifty - for them being a chatterbox is about the same as being a wastrel.
As a writer makes a living out of a word written, on the other end of a field a politician plows the audience with rigmarole. So they say that the tongue has no bone. Lies are much easier to say than to write - who wants to leave evidence?
After all, honest or not, the words bring bread. Yet this bread won't last for long, with one and only exception. There is one speaker that always says the truth, one who can’t be ignored. While men are often uttering words just to fill the petty emptiness or to steal a candy, billions a mouth speak nothing over even one word of God. So as the written word rules the world, the last word, just as it was in the beginning, will be the spoken one. It will come out of his mouth.
(1) The Doors, The American Prayer.
Literature. Art, Music, Culture and Nature
The rhythmic pounding off in the distance sharpened and intensified as well– became a work beat for some army of troll-like underground laborers, performing some endless, brutally monotonous task, wrote Dr. Eben Alexander in Proof of Heaven, a book about his near death experience.  I can't tell that for sure, but I think this was a music from Hell, and I’ve heard it too.