So then is this wilderness? If this voice is in it, it is wilderness . Or is it? And bewildered, I make a play at a play on words and find that it’s been made already, so not so wild after all, but utterly bewildered still. It may be this voice I am makes wilderness of wonderlands by chasing every ear away with overearnest beckonings or wordplay becoming rough and clumsy unbecoming to the ear or eye so a field of language laid waste. My voice creates a wasteland, I might say. A wasteland being a place of uncreation; barren, uninhabited, uninhabitable by any save this habitual player playing at remaking sayings, saying unsense as I’ve said before as I am densely self-referential. My voice is not a fire, nor a storm destroying, but an absence, yes a vacuum that evacuates by lack of force as it’s an unability that’s able to pull fertility, familiars far away from me. In short, I “suck”, colloquially; suck life from living into formless worlds unfertile, never fetid, as even rot would be a welcome presence next to this.