I love words. Sometimes I just want to wrap myself in cotton wool words like a mummy entombed in a whirlpool of characters and sounds that are constructed with care, or sometimes not, moulded into meaning. I want to be embalmed in an emulsion of phrases and feeling, and submerge myself into the linguistic subconscious. Dip my hand in selfishly and take generous, overflowing double-handfuls of words, bring them to my lips before they escape between my fingers and stuff them in my mouth like an overzealous child. I want to swallow them down, feeding my synaptic receptors with the primordial beginnings of thoughts until they spark to life as meanings and my relativity of them takes hold and I finish them off for myself. I want to taste them and slide them around my mouth, soften them with my tongue and push them against my palate and feel the different textures until they’ve had enough and turn bittersweet or sweet-sour and explode like pop rocks – little detonations of nuance and understanding, lingering for a second, teasing and slowly fading into memory. I feel like the one boy in the Beacon TV Bar advertisement.