Our language floats between us around us on elliptical currents. Uncounted words from before, shaken loose from longer fragments, tumble about unused, filling the air like pollen. When we choose to hear, we gather some at random, allow them to germinate in the womb of our ear. Whole strings of words coalesce there; phrases never spoken, sentences unfinished. Thus, we communicate, more or less, even as we speak.