Ink needs a pen, a pen needs ink. But what use is a pen without a hand, and the hand without a mind? And what is a mind without Language, Language without an idea? Ink without language, pen and mind is ink - merely spilled.
Foolish poet - you think I am so constrained?
Alone on the beach, I wrote in the sand:
I am as a bottle of wine made to be opened - and drunk.
The sun gazed hot, wind swept the beach and the words that I wrote - were lost.