They’re onto something I tell you.
they’re onto some knowledge of the divine. Initiated to it, they dance free while the rest of us are shackled. And the only sliver of light, the only breathe of freedom that touches our faces, it comes from those liberators. The writes, the artists, the poets, the lovers, the musicians. They, who have in their hands the divine marionette strings. They, who know their shit.
They’re onto something I tell you. I should know so. Seeing as how I put my name there right on the top. They’ll save you. they’ll save us. It’s a collective effort to be honest. On the waves the violinist makes in the air, the artist paints a wave atop which rides the writer, poet and poetry in motion, and they come unto you. Riders on the storm. And the best thing is, the storm’s of their own creation. And it will save you.
Theirs are the words written on the subway walls, and in tenement halls.