I only mangle language because it has mangled me, reshaped my brain and maimed me unto speechlessness physiquely. Why words would wage a war with me, I cannot know. I’m easy pickings. I am sickly with disease and dictionaries, attacked at every alphabet began it with that A-hole in my soul to fill with F-words are ineffable. Again that rub, that rubbish for what speech may come when One on High cannot be scrawled or scribed or scripted, is indescribe or cipherable. See, numbers do it too or words for numbers, tumbling out of order; sixes, sevens. I try to eighty-six them, but they slip back in astride bicycles or asaddle centipedes that breathe monoxides; something like a nightmare with more legs so I must suffer thusly trampled underfoot by utterance and/or take up arms and right-off martyred am I as my bodkin bared is no match for the many pens and tongues and keyboards, lungs and throats and phones or even simple pencils, twigs to scribble insults at me in the dust I am. I’m done.