C'est la Vie

Words, words; they roll from the tongue, resonate, a shining timbre in the air. Perhaps it is their living, breathing nature that I so love. These words, they grow, mature in the mind. At first an inkling, a thought, a feeling, which subtly nests and abides. Growing and ripening, like some mythical beanstalk until it can be contained no longer. It bursts forth in a splash of ink or in furious clicks of the keyboard.

Perhaps it is not so much a love of words as it is a yielding to them.