How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frighteningly that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words get it all wrong.
We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment.
I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can.” —“The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart” by Jack Gilbert
The verbose world of text and more text crammed together exhausts me.
“Here I am, baby/ Come on and take me/ Take me by the hand.”