What mediocre life has ever produce a work of true greatness?
Potential lade in the breast of every dawn, but the day is weary and tiresome.
Bring me living flights of exasperation
pistons and wires glowing wild with electric explosions
Pulse, flow, gush, rapture through the veins and ventricles
Tear the curtains down and sing screaming in the spotlight.
What life is mediocre?
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