How embarrassingly devoid of inspiration I become, deprived of a fleeting vision of a siren to tantalize and pluck at my fever. Only freshly scored in my mind's eye can the nymphs of this unglittering city fester and foster the madness which lets me feign poetic or prosaic discourse; a simple recipe, and one which has permitted the slow decline of the keenest of minds into madness.
The very subject of which I now scribble so aimlessly should be evidence enough of that, and the unwitting power so many hold without knowing their fantastic, latent power. Perhaps the latency of that power is what makes it so - otherwise, how could such a perfectly misaligned power dynamic exist - and thrive so? More importantly, how could the frenzied zenith of pining be concomitant with raving amorousness?
The moon waits for the sun to come to it, and the sun obliges in its relinquishment of power. The moon and its ghostly companions have ever been the silent observers and seducers of many more wandering eyes, as much as the sun is adored by throngs of plebeian taste and sensibilities. Who are they, to so arrogantly proclaim Sol, and not Luna? Who are they, to decry my madness by its label? And who are they, to declare my affection, self-deception?
I know madness and fantasy well enough as any man - enough to discern reason from delusions of grandeur, and this is no pretense of grandeur. Only in your affirmation or denial will prove if I am a madman, or a prophet, and perhaps still, you will prove me both.
