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A few minutes ago, I had much more to say. And maybe I’ll get those thoughts down on paper—well, you know what I mean—at some point soon, but until then, this:

Words don’t deserve that kind of malarkey. They’re innocent, neutral, precise, standing for this, describing that, meaning the other, so if you look after them you can build bridges across incomprehension and chaos. But when they get their corners knocked off, they’re no good any more…. I don’t think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little or make a poem which children will speak for you when you’re dead.

Tom Stoppard, The Real Thing

Anyway, the context’ll have to come later. Until then, something something cricket bats something.