The words are things that come to me. Fill me up, weigh me down, destroy my mind, seduce me, and reduce me to a mere shadow. They stroll through my thoughts, ravage my dreams, and deter my sleep to no end. They are concrete dragging me down, buried. They are sounds, delicately shaped on lying lips. Whole verses of flighty heroic poetry. They are my salvation and my sacrifice. I give them out, give them away until I fear they will one day leave me altogether. I bear them, beguiled and bewildered. Always awed by their fragile consistency, their staggering duplicity. They taunt me, call me out in my failure to mount them properly on the blank page. Still for all the fault I could so easily saddle them with, they are all that I am. Wit without words, songs without syllables are not splendid things. All that is left to me is to take them in, roll them about my soul and be grateful. Grateful as I purge them from my being, cleansing my meandering mind, making me whiter than snow. I can only hold onto the whimsical fancy that they will never forsake me. That my fingers will cease to move before they simple regurgitate inelegant babble.