Over the past few months, we’ve been collecting pieces. Puzzle pieces, or tesserae, if you will. We attempted to put them together, to build a whole. But we looked again, and our architexture had collapsed. So we made this box to house all the pieces instead. Play with them, if you will, like a child with plastic toy bricks. You are the blueprint. Build what you will. Whatever you will is transient. Build anyway.

We built this box, this hole, our inaugural issue of S/WORD, to celebrate the intricate difficulties and infinite meanings of language, of WORD:

“A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.”

We have been given to. We give. Words as words. Phrases as phrases. Letters as letters. Perpetually.

It feels like meaning, or sense. But that’s not it. Purpose is what is required.

Sometimes we are slanted, sometimes our works are slanted, sometimes upright.

A forward slash is not simply a backward backslash.

And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.