This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important.
Baby, I can see your bones
I can see your cage
I can see your armor
I can see your everlasting light
I can see your bones, baby
Don’t talk dumb to me, love
I can see through the gaps in your bones
The gaps in your light
I can see through your poorly built facade, love
Swipe. Touch your hair again, boy
I like the way you tell
It’s as sure as the sun rises
It’s in the way that you sway—sit.
Touch it again, boy
Yeah, I know
You don’t like transparency,
But boy I do.
Baby, ain’t nothing but consistency
Love, I like you.