An Idea (n.) that is tiny and confused is always greater than a very big idea that is absolutely clear.
An Idea (n.) can always be flipped, good into evil, truth into lie; a fragment of language cannot, because it burns its energy up and leaves only intensity.
The Idea (n.) has replaced the thing: no more apples, only an appleologist's reconstruction of what an apple used to be; no more sex, only the hint of it.
The Idea (n.) has to outrun reality and even its own shadow, but if it goes too fast it loses the shadow, just as words racing ahead of meaning tip into madness.
The Idea (n.) finds its fulfilment by vanishing as an idea and becoming a thing among things, snuffed out quietly in the world.
An Idea (n.) must outrun its own shadow — but sprint too fast and even the shadow faints, leaving not the shadow of an idea.
An Idea (n.) triumphs when it stops looking like one and melts into the world as one more thing among things.
An Idea (n.) should carry its own acquittal: the moment it needs a lawyer it stands under suspicion, and if it cannot plead for itself, let it die.