Words
Words.
Words, words, words, words. Words. More words. Some other words. A few words here (some more words there) and then this word: word.
Fat, voluptuous words. Fluffy, soft words. Skinny little sneaking-in-between words and their sly, underneath cousins. Coy words, teasing words, slippery with irrepressible intent words, followed by words of protest and deprecation. Words for laughing by. Words with bones, and some dinky words who refuse to spell themselves properly, followed by a whole pile of words from the store-room bin. Words.
Wild, uncaged wordbeasts, stalking silently and twitching their long, wordy tails in the word jungle, where flowery words smell like thick and cloying words beneath the humid words that clamber up and over all the great, wordy trees.
Words that reach out, and words that touch, breaking one thousand rules, born of impatience and necessity. Firm words, strong and shining and new, alongside ancient words, long-forgotten and recently renewed.
Meaningless drivel words. Flippant words, spinning word webs and marching on their little black feet across the sturdy threads, clambering back and forth until the word hall is nothing but a hopeless tangle, and there the words sit, thinking very highly of themselves and giving as much as they can while saying not much of anything at all.
Words, with a cup of tea in the cool sunlight, words by the fire, resting. Words peeking out from under things, and giggling, leaving little glowy trails of dust in their wake (or at least, that is their intention). Words like a candle in the window, and sparkling in the light of the moon. Words freckling a sky, and waiting.
Words.