Churning mass of umber-hued mire. Dark dither of dull dreams, drably parading past a review stand of petrified oligarchs.
Out! Narcissus-X rages: Out with you, sharp-edged nuggets of thought! Emerge from your prison! Narcissus-X, sinking as if alone in an oatmeal ocean.
Alone. The artist is a lonely one: pursuing what others cannot, or do not wish to, see; traveling paths made by - what?
Perhaps Narcissus-X the sleeping has already traversed these lands, leading the way for Narcissus-X the waking. If only Narcissus-X could meet Narcissus-X: could merge the waking and the sleeping mind.
Then - fly through the ebon abyss of night with all eyes open: those that see only light, and the eye of the mind which perceives what is seen, and can peer into the unseen: now and again catching an outline - a color - a movement. And return, as a ship in ancient times: returning from unknown lands with strange cargo.
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