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.
An appeal to an artwork's realism, its roots in reality, is an appeal not to its accuracy at registering facts but to the depth of its claim upon us. The claim is not, 'this is the real world', but rather, 'this is your world'.
Fuck up an omelet, call it a scramble.
I imagine the architect who designed the building in which I sit, sitting at his drawing table, asking himself out of the blue one day, 'why would someone in an office want a window??'.
A park down off Edgcumbe, a rock to sit on, a line of trees to look at.
Vladislav Delay, 'Utility and Liability', knowing how to forget, bike shop, yak momo, jogi-takari, Epicureanism, Chance the Rapper, open windows.
Coffee that stains the mug black.
What is Nietzsche's vivo for?