We want words to do more than they can. We try to do with them what comes to very much like trying to mend a watch with a pickaxe or to paint a miniature with a mop; we expect them to help us grip and dissect that which in ultimate essence is as ungrippable as shadow. Nevertheless there they are; we have got to live with them, and the wise course is to treat them as we do our neighbors, and make the best and not the worst of them. But they are parvenu people as compared with thought and action. What we should read is not the words but the man whom we feel to be behind the words.
— Samuel Butler, The Notebooks of Samuel Butler
My words have always been taciturn neighbors. We’ll exchange greetings over the fence if we’re both out in the yard at the same time, but we tend to mind our respective business. Lately, I haven’t seen them around much. I don’t see any lights on in the windows, and I haven’t heard them coming and going for a while. Maybe I should request a wellness check. Of course, if nothing’s wrong, I’m afraid I’ll cause an irreparable breach in our relations by having the authorities come knock on their door. What to do, what to do…