Words smother the space inside and make the man forget what emptiness was for. The first intruder, fed by those who fostered after us, were these syllables, these literal symbols, that found their way into our minds before the time of even memory. It is hard to remember, perhaps impossible, a time in our past where words did not exist. Can you remember moments of your early childhood, a period in which you had yet learn to speak? It is cumbersome to meddle with ideas of this sort, for they deliver upon our laps riddles that require a squinting effort.

Words are not innate to man in himself. They are carried through the line of cultural transition, by the passage of time as it molds mankind as a whole. Yet they do not change man in himself; not the core of what he is. Words are the fabric that allow whole hives of men and women to wear different fashions of tradition. Fashion, I say, for it affects merely the cosmetics of what mankind appears to be, and has no effect whatsoever on the proverbial plots, themes and memes which continuously repeat in endless cycles, from one millennia to the next.

Words are not of us, nor in us, but rather a symptom of something altogether foreign. If men be raised in a place where words do not exist, where silence is all that is heard, what will be of them? Words and their varying forms, whether they be largely crude or greatly refined, appear to endow mankind with the possibility of greater elaboration. Intelligence itself cannot be assumed simply by merit of their presence. Man, indeed, is uncomfortably unfamiliar with other types of intelligence, which may impart themselves only through other modes.