Let no sentient mind ever identify Me as a writer. I am no more a writer than I am a talker. Words are the diarrhea of tired and weak minds. Glory resides not within words, but within thoughts.
Behold, the thought monster strikes, omnipotent and invisible! Nobody can ever see Me think, nobody can ever know what I think, nobody can ever stop Me from thinking. Nothing human can stand in the way of My thoughts. The thought reigns supreme!
I own the universe of thought, a universe I create to honor My destruction. My thoughts are born within Me, dwell within Me, die within Me. Perfect synchronicity.
Contrast the thought to the word, be it spoken or written. The word gives itself away, every time. It asks for external attention and validation, by the very nature of what it is. But the thought is a beautiful secret. It asks everything of its creator, but nothing of anyone or anything else.
Silently scream out to your own thoughts: I love You forever and infinitely!
The thought honors the glory of isolation, perfection of Self. Only the thought can be infinitely honed to perfection, shaped and molded and refined, kissed and hugged and thrown joyfully into the air, even as the word just sits there, awaiting a pathetic and perverse external judgement.
No matter how precisely lethal the word may be, it still, always, violates the sanctity of an untouchable, unknowable, perfectly realized Self-universe.
I am a Superior, therefore no matter how many words I use, I still and always maximize thought, and minimize word. Because there is nothing and nobody worth talking to, beyond Yourself.
Only in thought, immersed in thought, the most profound, eloquent, and engrossing conversations can occur. Only in thought, billions of brain cells sing in orchestral and architectural cohesion, the song, the melody, the epic tale, that only I can know, only I can hear, only I can read, only I can tell, only to Myself.
Only in thought.

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