A Word (n.) has no meaning from its neighbors: if one word is empty, several are no fuller, so context lives in the thought and not in the other words.
A Word (n.) is not a label stuck on a thought: Bonald held that we think our speech before we speak our thought.
A Word (n.) begins as a whole sentence: the first sign is an interjection that already judges, and only later splits into subject and verb.
A Word (n.) in the mind can be counted letter by letter, because letters differ in signification, not only in look: signifying functions give the image the anchors the Pantheon lacks.
A Word (n.) can be remembered in the wrist: some people can only recall a spelling after a few twists of the hand, a way of clearing the motor register as a singer clears the throat.
A Word (n.) in the mind can seldom be read backward: even the most visual subjects can reverse only two or three letters without breaking the word into syllables.