A/N: I apologize in advance for this. It's 3am and my brain is addled with pain medication which is, contradictory to the warning on the box, giving me excess energy. Hence this. Allusion to Son of a Witch and the 'Elphaba lives' graffiti.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except this idea. And I'm not 100% sure I want to own this.

The Words are Gone.

And just like that, the words are gone. Though there are minds left that will weave them into intricate patterns, tongues to speak them and hands left to deceive with them, language has fled. Into the dark recesses of the subconscious they have fled. There they will fester, creating a perpetual dull ache that never quite reaches awareness. It was a retreat. Borne not from fear but a reflection of the emptiness in the land. Worse, now that words are gone.

People are desolate, shells. Barren, where once they grew. Even if that meant destruction to clear a space to fill. They do not comprehend what they have done, what they have lost. For, to understand a situation, it must first be described. The agony can only be conveyed through meticulously detailed explanations. Without the words, this is unattainable.

She took them with her, though few have noticed. With her demise came the death of clarity only her words could provide. Shapes begin to blur, structures have faded and souls will evanesce. All because she is no longer there to define them. Of course, most do not know this. How can they when all they can do is see and hear the images of the melting? No words to describe even that.

Words transcend what is commonly accepted as good and wicked. They are meaning. This was the role she played; definition to the world. In embodying both morality and evil she was neither. And it was called insanity. But it was something. It had a name, a word, and she was it.

And she is gone. She has taken meaning and insight with her. What is thought, spoken, written is nothing. It is just an inhalation and then the exhale that leaves no lasting impression. This is the epitome of emptiness. It is life without a point.

They celebrate the melting, though they do not know what it is. Soon they will forget why they celebrate. Eventually they will forget the melting itself. Because the melting had a meaning, if a destructive one. And when the last impression of her has left those ancient stones, so will the last word. There will be no meaning left, just a hollow life.

Though meaning and a point for existence are proclaimed in the streets. They know nothing but lies. It is what is written they see. Deceptive figures that form recognizable phrases. Ultimately they will come to nothing. Images on the street masquerading as something else. Something greater, a return, a fulfilment.

But who's to say? For the words are gone.