Running away to near

Order

So any sentence would be in a specific order, an order that falls somewhere between dictionary alphabetic and complete chaos. Writing, or writing well, whatever that actually means, seems to me to be leaving the thing far enough away from complete chaos and at the same time far enough away from alphabetical order, organized stupidity that says it all while it means nothing.
Not right in the middle, but somewhere that makes sense and at the same time remakes the senses or undoes what is supposed to be felt. Knowing that the thing is so simple, I bought two dictionaries. I left one on a corner, whole, and on the other, I chopped up the whole word, and if it weren't for the wind everything would be there, in the most perfect mix, complete chaos, nightmare piled up of those who do crossword puzzles. I then spread out the texts (mine), so that the most ordinary and commonplace, always organized, would stay close to the corner of the dictionary, and the most inspired, and then the craziest, and from then on, the illegible ones, not because of the handwriting. but because of the syntax, close to the shattered dictionary stack. I found that all my good writing ended up in front of a specific, damp concrete house with a tree in front. It looked abandoned were it not for a swing that moved, alone, perhaps the same wind that took part of the shattered dictionary away. Nailed all over the block to the walls, I went from madman to idiot to genius and back to idiot, but an organized idiot, as if nothing made sense but at least was in some order that gave the unfortunate the illusion of control. that didn't have. The unfortunate one in the case was me, but not on the wall of the house with the swing. There I was probably even taller. I thought it made sense, albeit a kind of sense you can't understand at first, so I thought I'd continue the thing; buy a third dictionary, which shredded and redone with tape would have the words sorted by size, something to fill the next block, but no.
I went to the house where the wall was still friendly with my work, and I wrote on a last pasted sheet: I, curator of my own literary work, consider the texts pasted on the wall of this house to be brilliant, not because they are mine, but because they are in the exact and perfect distance between the corner of chaos and that of alphabetical order. I reiterate that all the other texts pasted on this block are not my authorship, but my detractors, unhappy unfortunates envious of such a notion of the use of the tape measure between different corners. This wall then becomes the repository of all my work, while the rest of this block must also be maintained, as proof of human envy and the suffering of those who have no talent when faced with brilliance. And so, lying without guilt or shame, but with some haste, I turned the corner.