how lovely to be one of the artless mass awash in music and art and film and print transported blissful before the voice and spectacle of the universe. but those who feel the unseen fingers jerk their marionette cords to fumbling life those who hear the faint whisper of creative daimons can such ever just enjoy? the majesty wrought by masters is vast and bittersweet lesser works darkle in those shadows and bliss curdles into the incurable ill of yearning. gods bid us speak but who will hear as we shout against the swelling cacophonic tide of the famous whom we love and despise? better to kill the muse, to savage the twists in the brain that permit such bootless creation and somehow forget the fleeting touch of forever.