Can you show what has been lurking behind your anemic vocabulary? I have much to offer on that matter. Fault could be placed, but to what end? Deeds of the past have little to offer in the blood of the present. The past has none but itself to serve, which is to serve nothing. It is moot in its own voice, a voice given volume in the mind alone. Stop feeding it, and it will die. It will realize its place. Have you your place?

The words. We have them, or have us they? If Beckett is correct and thoughts are clothed in words, do the clothes make the man, so to say? I should think so. I could be busy doing anything at all, but to hear a thought before adorning it with words seems too great a task for even the most determined of us. I can hear many a thought in a word or two, however. Have I ever wanted to say it before I could say it? Have I ever known it before my thoughts could play it back? Was it just a tingle in my tongue? A tickle in my lung? Was its definition preordained?

The words are the divining rod to thought. The thought is the unfertilized better half of the words. They conceive themselves, of themselves. This thought. These words.