One of the paradoxes of making pictures is that lines are frequently used to show things that consist of surfaces and differently shaded volumes of space. But lines only truly exist in Flatland. So a line has a special existence: it's an object that exists and does not exist. It exists to tell a story about a living soul's perception of one small sliver of Life.
At any moment, unpredictably, my line could become a written series of words in a sentence describing what I am seeing. If we could magnify this line we might see that it loops and swerves, fractal-like describing the coastline of existence utterly unique in its mellifluous meanderings and mutterings