Those who deal in extreme obtuse levels of verbosity tend to use their literary prowess as a sort self adoration, a worship of potentialities of the human intellect. Worship of reason. Their deconstructions are a sort of false idolatry to the infallibility of their own analytical reasoning. Any self criticism of their own parts should be taken for what it truly is which false modesty. For even if they deny the divinity of their own ego before the cock crows, deep within their own hearts they remain true believers our the cult of there own self worship.
Too much intellectual verbosity can become an obstacle to action to motion. That which is animate is alive. That which is verbose without being animate...perhaps not alive, or not as alive?
Too much mind.
Just an odd thought today.