effulgence

the woolgatherer quills

i've heard the rumors, but it just doesn't add up. people say dreaming is dead, so i wonder if they're running, the dreamers that is, ducking for cover, hiding from the hands of the short-sighted and their cohorts, the pragmatists. it's clear that in this world of television plots and magazine fantasies, they aren't welcome anymore. they are a threat to the status quo--but i know they're not completely gone. they leave their quills behind and i find myself collecting them like old stamps from the yester-century. curiousity gets the best of me so i try writing, drawing, even creating the quintessences of stars, with the goose feathers whose ink entices with faint hints of wild hue-berry and crushed mint. i'm intoxicated with the lingering scent as it's on my hands, in my hair, and in my heart. i sense now, the tug underground, but i don't think i can go so quietly down there without trying for change up here, first. i haven't seen my visions lucidly enough yet, but i know my grand, surrealist plans will be spilled out and scribbled across anything, everything, and well, everyone, including you.