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.
In advance of the throngs that will descend upon them on Sunday—the annual street fair—the funeral home on Grand has fenced its flowerbeds off with little more than a white cord, as if to say, meekly: look.
Their talk lulls momentarily as they work, and then, one barista says to the other: 'I got chased by a raccoon the other night!'.
'Looking out for one's own interests is no substitute for belief.'
Although half gallons aren't really half gallons now.
A man in a cap carrying one pineapple and a half gallon of ice cream.
A pair of black pumps, abandoned atop a bridge's guardrail.