No, not sick of words at all. Enjoy them, even when frilly and sappy. You contradict yourself if you say that slop is good if it wakes people up, yet then denounce words as useless. I am certain of language’s utility. I am certain of its place in this “brightening”. The weak self-abnegation of some ironised “writer who hates writing/thinking” only comes because its direction is towards words as the seat of some rational mechanism, some autonomous value, — whereas the value of speaking/writing, when directed to the centre/spatio-spiritual reformatting, or even as a love letter to some distinct or indistinct other, seems to me obvious. I do believe in “good works” — that temporal acts be used to dispel illusion. Dropping a deucey is indeed holy. Savour a working and painless anus. Single of heart, perhaps in its nothingness, is still, somewhere, a unity. You know what the “good words” in your head are; I’m sure, my friend.