Perhaps during sleep - when we tend to the amorphous mass before the embryo - we seek ultimate sweetness and oblivion. Before the arrival of the unknown sculptor who will free the fingers, reveal the nails. The recreating human may not know its creator, but it steals their ways; from the inaccessible it dives into the surface of the partial. Just like this text was created when the myriad words fell - like rain from the sky - outside of it, and a little cloud remained. Neither in this text, and probably not in the overall language - with all possible combinations of words - is there a trace of truth.

"Here is another self-deception. The linguistic," an anti-deceiver would say. But perhaps it would annoy a listener and they would curse him wrongly.
"But why are you cursing me?"
"But when, who cursed you, it's a self-deception."
"Ah, okay then."