Can language define the bitterness that has leached from me my cruelty to smaller things? Can language ever be the vein that carries the tender swelling of my true passion, or the twisted visciousness of my desire? And how can language paint a picture of the depth of my compassion towards a broken heart, or draw the fear that makes me start like a ghost from the tranqil meadow of the brass rabbit into a dark and tangled forest of anger? I say never. Isay speak no speak, allow no meager tongue to touch these things.