Carcinoma is a disease of vitality. Busy little cells go on a development boom, like so many property speculators. Vigorous and undeterred by zoning regulations, cancer cells go boldly where no cell has gone before. They see possibilities. They infiltrate systems, send out confusing messages, suborn the energy of their opponents, squat in all the best neighbourhoods.
Like writers liberated from morality, they are proliferant, satirical, polyreferent, functionally dysfunctional.
Like metaphors cast adrift to run amuck in a plethora of golden opportunities, cancer sells and destroys, making hay while Rome burns.
That’s it then.
A writer noticed that it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to write coherent and well-formed sentences. His prose was becomingly increasingly littered with redundadundancies and although he wrote more each day, he said less. Although he wrote more each day, he said less, so he decided to consult a doctor, who decided to consult a specialist, who decided that the writer had carcinoma of the sentence structure. Carcinoma of the sentence structure is the is the is the diagnosis, said the specialist who had been consulted about the carcinoma of the sentence structure of the writer who had consulted the doctor about the carcinoma of the sentence structure of the writer. Florid sentences are an early sign, increasingly becomingly ridiculously. Redundadundadundancies and ostrich meaningless interpololations indicate the indications of stage two metastactical carcinoma of the sentence structure. From which by short steps meaninglessly. Stage Fourly. Tumour growth increasingly becomingly overlywhelmingly the sentence distortingly structurally incohohohoherent. Isolated phrases. Necrosis. Deathly.