There are some people who must speak. They talk their way through it. Progress pushes through the time sludge on the power of words, which vibrate and cogitate through ideology barriers and... so people talk. They share a story of their youth. They confront oppressive untruth. At least they hope it is untruth. They talk as if it is. And when they stop talking, they die. Oxygen dissipates. Flesh dries up. Ears find respite. Teachers make their way through their lecture and are able to get to the point. If I have a thought, so what? Strangers rub their hands and fists all over their faces, massaging their heads as they fidget with their thoughts. The rubbing hands sending background messages to their distracted brains, keeping them grounded and reminded of the reality they are steeped in. They have a thought, and then they talk.