The half-life of words

Some words moulder in the darkness. They bloat and swell, followed by a hard numbness. Soft words, such as ‘nice’ and ‘pretty’, which are neither soap nor sauce, show additional complications which arise from the non-uniform distribution of meaning which may cause repeated bouts of nausea and vomiting On the second reading nausea may persist, but without vomiting. On the third day the appetite for words might return. Damage to the narrative structure will begin to appear around this time. During the first few reads abdominal cramps will begin followed by logorrhoea. After a few paragraphs, and for no apparent reason, these symptoms will disappear.

Acclimatisation to the text is the most dangerous stage. The respiration rate becomes rapid and shallow. Some scream out whispered phrases broken up like static. Some words are torturously silent, squirming in the outer darkness, struggling to be free. The walls have words. The doors have words. Everything has words but you. Pressure must be applied to the eyeballs and vagal stimulation given to the carotid artery to induce vomiting and unconsciousness. A good book must be placed under the reader’s head to aid recovery.

If the reader shows epilation, pulling the hair out of his head, significant weight loss and increased morbidity due to word induced burnout, a multivitamin supplement of classical texts should be applied immediately and a bland diet of horror stories should follow. A rectal tube should be applied to ease the early stages of discomfort.

If the condition worsens, the writer doesn’t know he’s a reader, loses all reason and continually returns to the same piece of text hoping to make it better; the cause of death should be an obscure footnote that nobody will read.