Words, worlds of words.  Words filled with affection, understanding and even love, that have in fact also passed through the mouths of tyrants and the torturers employed by them.  Words I use to understand myself, to create a self, a unique being answerable to none but myself also used by countless others including half-wits.  Endless the words, endless the hands that write them, the tongues that speak them.

How the turning and twisting of them changes them. Chameleons.  Affection becomes affectation. Understanding misses the mark and the mighty Eric Burton, he of the Animals pleads oh lord please don't let me be misunderstood. How lively these things we string together making up the beast we call language.  The beast I call I.

It is on a machine's screen these words sit yet I see paper all the same.  I sense a piece of paper behind these words or in a future for these words.  I hear the clatter of printing.  The hummingbird senses another continent and there flies.  The word knows paper and wants to rest, to nest on a page made from them.

Endless the words. Endless possibilities for the word-created self occupying a human world while the mouse he says  how very interesting the taste of paper, the edge of books and what are called their jackets being especially delightful.