Once something was I, was something that made the word that is I. I. I. I. Now words come—and go—and this word I. This letter I. Word letter I, which the thing that this body used to be used to say. Not like A in ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ . . . not like those marks which they call letters that fit together to make things, whole things, word things. Like a thing of its own. Not like the things that used to attach to this body-thing but not now. Like its own thing and only its own thing when it was not in ABCDEFGHIFKLMOPQRSTUVWXYZ. This thing that writes these letters was once the letter that did not need other letters. It was I, but it was also letters together, always the same way. It was a name-thing. What the name-thing was this body does not know anymore. This body is a body-thing. But not all bodies are body-things. Some bodies can still say I. They look at one another and they say I and this body cannot say I. If this body-thing could be a wanting-thing it would want to say I like it said when it was a name-thing. And these name-things that can say I when this body-thing cannot say I must not be—it is better that there be no name-things if this body-thing cannot be anymore a name-thing. If this body-thing cannot say I then nothing else can . . .