Psychic explosions happening in hoards. They rush, crumble, blow past my eyes. Who drives this carriage of Madness? A sane man? Never! My horseman is haggard, thin, pale, scruffy, wild with wisps of hair over his dark, devouring eyes. He steers with such an elegant grace, how could I pass up his services? Bubbling, brewing, festering are the thoughts he's born.
He seldom gets lost but when he does it is never for long. He always returns with the swagger of a dragonfly to captivate and enrapture all senses.
He is patient. He always arrives when creativity is sparse and hopes seem lost. You will not hear him arrive, do not attempt to listen for his wheels or his steed. Know only that he watches, waits, for you to summon him. Shall you? Do you dare call upon his talents? Indeed, are you so clever?
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