Wittgenstein: P.I., #4

Lines ripped from Philosophical Investigations

The boundary; senseless,
withdrawn from circulation.
It’s raining: give him
signs, just words. I am
content. Must I understand?
The absent-minded man
clutching his forehead.
Something coupled to these
words. Engaged.

In misunderstanding an odd
process, a strange medium,
a word, there is nothing

Chess or rather
experience, an act
of intending? What
kind of super-rigid
connection between
the sense of words
& the rules of the game?

Teach me. No, that’s not
what one should say.
Every interpretation hangs
in the air together with
what it interprets.

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