As a Mind, we make assumptions every second of every frame of our life and the mutants quivering in the corner of your vision, the dark troll face on the tree and the kitty in the concrete swirl, make up as much of the world as misheard unheardities and misfired emotional response. The mind is a storyteller, but a storyteller who fills every space of your head with mad juxtapositions and nightmare seeds [and how the angels laughed when he spoke of mustard when he meant nightmare]
With text, the patterns repeat as words with the same letters in the same position are set up for an infinite dance with partners being flung to the ceilings and recollected as they fall.
And when we misread, we spark a light to a new universe, unique to the patterns etched into your inner skull with your brain the map and the vehicle. So we must pay very close attention or perhaps wander a bit farther into the weird hole behind us that we may never see but is always there, waiting for our eyes to grow out the back of our heads and behold its black depth.