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.
'But all these times and places and occasions are now and here.'
'…which no day illustrates…'
'—as if the earth sent forth an inward heat to greet the returning sun; not yellow but green is the color of its flame'
'So they destroy one another for us. How is a tradition to come out of that?'
'He could only feel with a terrible pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown to him; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope that she would come to love him, she was already loving another.'
Nobody nothin nowhere no more.
'Thus the sun whose light and warmth we make use of every day has its circumspectly discovered, eminent places in terms of the changing usability of what it gives us: sunrise, noon, sunset, midnight.'
'The monotony of everydayness takes whatever the day happens to bring as a change.'
I was arrested recently by an image, a vision, called forth by a pair of lines from a song on Hard Rain—'once I had mountains in the palm of my hand / and rivers that ran through every day'—and since then have lingered in thought over the imbalance I feel between the two lines. In the first I hear a trope, something to say, the sort of thing one puts in a song. The second hangs in the air long after Dylan's sung it and I feel the rivers around me, see green life out of the corner of my eye.