Sewers of Babel : kerinth

It is only by the dimming of the screen, the removal of all the displays and means of writing that I can now see what the point is.

[More:]

The land is mute, although that is an inexact word at best. The land is more truthfully speaking a language the likes of which we shall not hear echoing from our own mouths. It is only the tone that we capture every so often in ou long vowels or low lisping confidence/consonants that allow us to have any pretense.
The land is speaking, it says long and harmonic and cyclicical things that brook no opposition. It is imposssible to resist waves directly - the force of water must be rerouted or reapplied - the gods must be well-supplied and -fed.

I must be fed too, but my feeding changes the nature of my song - my feeding is chewing and guttural and stomached. The earth eats infinitely, and we are microorganisms on the grindstones that themselves may be fleeting like the many teeth of a shark or Omnivore.

But all my vast gestures capture only the hopelessness of my position. I just ate, and am typing an abstracted language in an abstracted alphabet onto an abstracted data entry machine into an abstracted program that is running on a farflung server. My words, those longlost children of primeval sounds, are the sole representatives at a conference of other sole representatives trying in vain to emblazon a whole. The land is, more specifically, not mute - but in our conversations it is silent for all we can hear.