He wrote broken writing

 He wrote broken writing. Of grains of sand. Broken boundaries that do not know the space. The space is born in your arms, on your lips, the word. That island of seagulls that the world orders. That orders the wait. That part of you drawn, like a strange and vulnerable time. You, lover, of all withered hells. Where the pain of unspoken words emanates from.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/thesis.