If a true name for this could possibly be spoken, it would strike mute who dared to form the sound. But euphemisms are really all the fae have for anything. No way of truly defining the undefinable, the chaotic, the truly alive. No right way to claim it by means of carved sounds. The meanings are all pretend.
Words are a means of order, structure.
The first touch of Banality on the soul of a child comes, calling structure to the wild, illusionary meanings to associations, when it first learns to shape the designations and categories of safety and comfort. Perhaps it is, all of it, illusion . . . That was not the beginning of the story. For true beginnings are either too empty or too full to be spoken. For she believes that she understands the nature of beauty, on a level beyond words.