tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1065058749465113819.post7470976359235954960..comments2011-11-01T07:00:49.553-07:00Comments on Word on the Street: The Vestiges of a Lucid DreamMatthew Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08724124677602501635noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1065058749465113819.post-58857701270183226132011-11-01T07:00:49.553-07:002011-11-01T07:00:49.553-07:00I drop my pen, my fingers quivering from the geniu...I drop my pen, my fingers quivering from the genius that struck my person as if atoms split. While wandering particles winked out of reanimation I feebly attempted to contrive the sweat perforating my skin from swathing over my brow and splashing onto the page hovering below my trembling lip. These would be my last words, written or otherwise. My last hollow attempt to conjugate meaning from my naked conscious before I cover that ugly body with gingham and cloth. For once one bears witness to genius one must succumb to one's own subjacency. True art makes all that surround it seem paltry and wretched, wicked and foul. Art demands to be heard, observed, understood, glorified. Makes mortals bow to the true good, the enlightened mind. It is in this triumphant space that I sit, a mere pathetic shadow to what stands above; it is to you good sir, that I bow.Not Specifiedhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12312900008264634089noreply@blogger.com