Strideo meaningless words break out and tumble all over the place.
thousands of burned out shells of old blathes stretch out as far as the eye can see.
everything is abandoned. nothing remains but old scratchings on the walls. no one reads them. the wind traces over them again and again.

until one day the silence is broken.

a skite emerges from the wreckage of an old blathe about daydreams where he had been hiding under a half collapsed paragraph.
he rummages around in the ruins of an eroding poem, picking out some good words here, a clever turn of phrase there.
he begins to stack them, fitting them together like a giant puzzle. each one exactly in its place. each one connected in just the right place.
soon other skites emerge as well, stumbling out into the light, some old, some new. together their words grow into a new city, a huge maze built atop the remains of an older one.

a hive built by a collective of individuals.

a fresh engine of conveyance.
mass transit for words.
where the tracks lead nowhere . . . because they keep making them.
what's it to you?
who go