wordless, and with words

The world would speak to me, sometimes with words, sometimes not. The not was in the green of grasses, or the way a knobby twig twitched in the wind. It was an afternoon's shadows and hues, or the way the bay's water would ripple and move. The words came too. They would come, the words, on lighted signs; those bulbed boards on the front of buses, or the sides of buildings. The world made messages there, for my eyes. The world used words, on those signs, only the world would use, and it amused me when it could. It could, as only the world can, and it would try and try, this world, to keep me from trying to leave it. Too soon. Too soon.