Words are an art concealed by sound and expression.

Carefully drawing ink to paper, you reveal to me that words are immensely larger than what they seem to be. You never say it aloud, as you despise words so, but the passion is within you, tremoring inside your very skin as if you are more art than human.

You decline to admit it, decline to show it because you know that words often lie. Words betray. Words do not remain with one voice and one set of lips longer than they are spoken. You do not trust words, and you say you never will.

Reading silently, articulating but not blooming -- although words are to be read, you think them poison to be uttered.