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.
A full three cars brazened their way into and through the intersection, two straight ahead in their lanes, another behind turning left, well after all the lights had changed, and when the driver on the opposite side who had already come to a stop for the red started anew into the intersection before coming calmly to her senses and stopping again, her reaction was marked not by the abrupt, bodily jerk of a mechanical counterreaction, but by an uncanny glimpse of the spectator within the whole contraption, withdrawing from engagement upon realizing that her autonomous body, or its situation, or its world, had almost led her astray.
Potholes in the bricks, filled; an abandoned shopping cart, gone.
That is definitely a nun.
A blue that seems to reset the colors beneath it.
The grammar of 'I hope', 'You better hope', 'I better hope'*.
('Of course, if water boils in a pot, steam comes out of the pot, and also a picture of steam comes out of a picture of the pot. But what if one insisted on saying that there must also be something boiling in the picture of the pot?')
'Good luck', says one barista to another who goes off to clean a bathroom.
A sniffler, a constant sniffler, wearing big salmon-pink headphones.