May lips do what hands do

I was fine, being home, until I had to come online where even the possibility of communication made me physically sick, and either the thought or experience of being made ill by an idea then made me cry. Two (and nine) nights ago I cried because music drives home like a nail my inability to say what it can how it can. I used to want to be a writer, and later on was jealous of writers, but now I mostly just despair over what words, in anyone's mouth, cannot do.

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