This word looks too thin.
Looks like it's been waiting in a wind-swept field since 1870.
The word has a wild, haunted hunted look in the middle of its single vowel.
This word looks like it could use a shave, a hot bath and a good bowl
of nourishing soup and probably all in that order.
The word looks like it was scrawled with a stump of blunt pencil and folded
into the back pocket of a ploughman who was starving in a Thomas Hardy novel.
The word needs bringing in from the field.
It needs all of the things mentioned above
and then I think I'll lend it a coat.
I'll transcribe it to a clean sheet of modern day computer paper.
The word, I'm pretty sure, has spent too long on its own. I'll put other words around it. Enough words to make it feel like its important, that it belongs to something.
So the word has its shave and a long hot bath filled with fragrant bubbles. It eats its fill of good and nourishing soup. It slurps it down like a robber on a tombstone and doesn't say a word.
You can't rush these things.
I lend it my coat.
The word tries it on.
The word doesn't say a word.
I open the door and tell it to go. I shove a wad of notes into its nice new coat pocket.
I can do no more.