The argument that language is also a form of grooming, is one to which I fondly adhere. And by grooming, I mean the sort of things Chimpanzee do to each other. Call it an understanding that Tics in the fur are a bind. They must be ceremoniously hunted down in order to properly understand each other. The sooth of touch, and the endless parade of words that patter through the day. "Good Morning." "How are you." "Have a nice day." "Bite me."
Once Tic-less, we become less concerned. A bland custard of an emotion or maybe satisfied, or content, just sort of happy. And this way silence is comfortable, the sunset makes sense, the bark of a dog no more than a melody that needs no explaining or thoughts of shotguns. Fortunately there is the political class whose role it is to discover Tics where none have been before. Damned if I don't itch all over from listening to them.