Because metaphors are the knives that cut the belly of the beast, the hives fermenting honey out of life.

Because every night I was alone with just a razor and despair to call my own a hundred strangers placed their pens upon my bones and held me while they made their dreams my home.

Because with five letters and a full stop Marcel Duchamp tore art from the walls and threw it on the floor and declared creativity was open for us all.

Because words shape worlds, and not just the ones you find in books. They are the colours that determine how reality looks, painting the people you meet with shades of nuance, making these ones heroes those ones crooks. They are bricks that build an architecture of alienation so quickly from a single whisper one day you find yourself looking down at the bodies scattered round the base of the tower, wondering was that really all it took?

Because words can raise demons from the dust, conjure up a god in whom a nation trusts, drown a generation’s hopes in lust, find madness in the passion of the just – because if a person who dreams only of themselves could do all of this then one who dreams of justice MUST.

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