Words.

The words that line our streets and walk along the surfaces of our hidden worlds chemically react with the morning air.

Hazy blue light and sunlight: More words than I can think of.

Do you consider yourself to be an individual of literary inclination? The thought came racing to your head as the morning mist liberated the building from darkness before your eyes. If you tilt your head, does the building look a little more like this?

The words in these walls are locked in perpetual potential: they are the labels of matchboxes

Though in a sense, this is a great honor. Words, like people, can go out in a twinkle of the eye or remain eternal and grow ancient. How strange it is to see words melt away, splayed out like an unwilling Malevich on a New York sidewalk

They sizzle into snow and the more interesting the content, the more quickly they melt. What all great books struggle with is that we inevitably read them backwards, while their authors read them forward.

The silver dawn, and the commuters make their way into the world. One has an idea, and

BANG!