Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

There is something not quite right with the world. It teems with chaos, madness, and sudden death. Worse than quick ones are the deaths that linger on accompanied by unbearable, untreatable pain. That which isn't it out to get us will surely let us die without even noticing out passing. Unless they benefit from it. They will notice us then.

It is only the protective barriers that we have created to separate us from the natural world that keeps us safe. Is there an order to the world that we have not placed on it? Is all order artificial? I can only think of one golden exception that suggests otherwise. We create rules and societies and classifications. From these baselines we create more of the same, each revelatory door opening to a new hallway of closed doors waiting to be opened. But we carry the seed of chaos within us. We came from the old world and we have not changed, not really. No matter how hard we try, everything we create is flawed.

It is no wonder that the geniuses among us are all quite mad.


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