We are opaque to ourselves, a mystery. So we imitate others and make up stories in which we have a leading part, copying phrases we hear, using words that attract us: ohhh that sounds good. This keeps our spirits up when the nights are dark. Otherwise we might slip down, get dragged down by 'lost' souls. Don Quixote went off with Sancho Panza following his phantom, chivalrous, holy heroes, Arthur and Amadis. Sancho and everybody else thought he was mad but loved him anyway.
We imitate in admiration, following the faint trail made by those who go before us. A dead end is when we find ourselves in a situation in which we cannot admire others around and above (in a hierarchical sense) us. Then we are thrown back on our own opacity, tilting at windmills, waiting to hear the words that sing to us.
Let me get on with the work; the work of words. Listening to others, finding arrangements of words that have the power to make sense, to give form and to lead me a step or two forward.
Where are you?
I can't see you . . . oh yes I can now. Can you see me?
O yeah you look very funny.