Collapse of the House of Whimsy

The poet scrambled, frantic to find a pen. Harvesting thoughts was of necessity a lonely undertaking. It's interesting to think (he thought) of thought as akin to some kind of bioluminescent process. He decided to carry a camera, and record things on the spot. Once he starts setting things down he finds himself drowned in too many scraps of reflection. He consults the ancient singing masters, and reflects on their perfection. The roll of dice does not abolish the ever-expanding periphery of decision making. The world swims before him, a sea of atoms set alight. Discover the unwritten laws of the universe in your own unconscious mind, and sing something. Like, right now. There is no such thing as time wasted; there is only time spent.