"Language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my check-out girl... language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette.
Language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple, it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from a old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair,
it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party, it's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl. It's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot."
(hah, Sorbet for the Soul just ended (lost a couple of minutes while the window closed accidentally) with needle-scratching sounds that made me doubt my amp)
Thanks for the music and guardrails, DJ JA, time for me to commandeer the zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz in puzzzzzzzling (the scratching was from my amp's selector switch after all, not the end of the previous song.)
A ★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆
☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆★
☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆★☆
★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆
☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆☆★☆★ for you, Lord of dark!
I had assumed you'd been here years, but now your recent interface hacks make even more sense. Now, if only the number 1☆☆ had any interesting puzzlable properties . . .