Words slip off the page one by one until they become a stream, a flood. They splash into waiting hands and cupped ears, droplets clinging with insistent tenacity. The words trickle on, shaping themselves into cracks and crevices, poems and songs and stories. Rivulets reach out liquid fingers to water parched earth. Even the most barren places begin to venture forth a few tender shoots. They spring, one by one, lapping greedily. They whisper golden words to each other, spread their rippling shadows, and grow tall.