We love to hate a good cliché. The shameful refrain that freezes the dance of our nimble language. Yet, in moments of weakness, we crumble under the weight of silence. We caulk the void with black holes and vacua. We victimize attentive winds with the lesser scripts of our Hollywood forbears.
It takes a fool to spin a phrase, and it takes a wit to forge one. But only a master of words and games can purge the lifeless banality of its tedium. Awaken the dead. Squeeze life from this shriveled effigy of language. Play a sweet song with muted strings.
A crestfallen man contemplates his tortured life, considers the varying degrees of precipitation. Life’s a motherfuckin’ bitch, he says. A wry smile, a gruff sigh, a work of rustic art.
Lights and tunnels, wings and prayers, beautiful words seeking salvation. We rescue them with a timely flourish and they, in turn, rescue us.
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