Another story is possible. But the persistence of the anthropocentric gaze, the reprise of language’s triumph, is not what excites me. What excites me is what happens when we encounter that which cannot be said, or mapped, or represented in concepts, or reflected upon, or owned: the orgasmic gasp of the inhuman. The space between words. There must be life outside story, beyond overarching contexts, tyrannical sentences and rude figures of speech. Beyond justice claims, settled scores, and arrivals. What adventures have stones, strewn across lithic landscapes, denuded of their vitality by narrative and voice? What pulsing mysteries are enfolded in the yearning lust of a lightning bolt? What empires and dynasties congeal and dissipate in the curdling crowds of spilled milk? What succour has tree and sky? What is the pollination song of fields? What languages do mountains speak with when the sun yawns to sleep? How does one consider the leviathan? The material world matters – not because it fits in story. The slime trail of a slug is the cosmic arc of justice.