Absolute chaos does not need a name; it does not call out for one, but consistency diminishes the chaos, thereby making it no longer absolute. What is consistent calls out for a name: an atom, a neutron, a molecule... A stone, a planet, a star...
Things then beg a description. And their context, some sort of geography; their duration and interaction, history; their numbers, maths; their patterns, geometry: on and on until the advent of language and all the sciences. Even though words are arbitrary classifiers, being born of chaos and consistency they do command a certain wisdom. Words separate thought from thinking; they separate moments from eternity; a confine from continuity... Though powerful, they are fragile and cling to convention lest they dissipate.
Words are like skeletons: they uphold us. Words are like skeletons: they are the prison within. What words will remain when the milky way is spilt into the abyss to fecund other worlds? Will we float on them like leaves in the wind?
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