having to do with the weight of words

So here is the bundle of grief. (As opposed to joy.) The Gist of Elijah--tangible, tactile. The pith and the pulp of it. Three pounds of dead tree. Three hundred and one pages of ink-stained copy-paper printed by the good folks at FedEx Kinkos for a fair market price and then shipped (via ground, so the heft of the manuscript can crawl like a tortoise--carapace heavy and plastron thick) to the sublime clime of Vermont where it will be unboxed and flipped through. Where later, the ink-stains will be Rorschach-ed and Cap'n Crunch Decoder-ringed and evaluated for relative merits against conceivably a thousand other novels.

There went my little bundle, my offsprung germ of literature, mayhaps to burrow into a judge's skull, infest and foment, bubble and deliquesce, suffuse the glials and neurons, and win a first novel contest.

Godspeed my grief. Fare thee well. May we meet again on happier, yonder shores. St. Elmo and St. Christopher guide and keep you. Bon voyage, you bulk of many hours, you girth of lost hair, you joyous, joyful, grief. Adieu.