Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
Something someone once whispered to me, or at least wanted to: it really is possible to make it through. I am keeping her words close.
'They don't split the baby! That's the whole point! Read the book, motherfuckers!'
Passing under a railroad bridge, my bus was suddenly deluged by the accumulated runoff, massive even compared to tonight's hard rain. We passengers were collectively shocked, even maybe stupefied.
One is hardly allowed time to think, by the world or by one's self.
I'm writing a bibliography.