Words were scrawled across walls and mirrors. "Adjacency," black, sidled "intimacy," dark red. "Effulgence" expanded, writ large, by "concupiscence." "Saturnine" lay low, close to the floor.
Lying in his bed in the Sunday morning light, I beheld what the night's darkness and our urgency had masked: flashes of brilliance and memory, etched, probably feverishly, into white walls. These words were the room's only decorations.
"They're terms I'd like to use in my next paper," he explained, with a blush.
"Hmmmmmm," I said, other words escaping me.
"Do you use those words so that you can write the articles or do you write the articles so that you can use those words?," I ventured.
His face turned redder. "I think the second one," he said.
I think he, like us all, was a prisoner of language.