Coleridges
all artists are Coleridges with their dreamy art projects and poems already completed in their overheated heads spitting it all out spitting it all out on a page or a piece of rock stuff that has been gurgling inside for two weeks and just then, just then when you’re about to cough up the diamond the roses with all those delicately painted thorns carried by those courting young men in their wrinkled jackets the postman knocks with an express package that you just have to have and you open it and find a garden of trees loaded with cell phones lap tops dripping like pine cones the larger the...
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