This one goes out to the dregs.

To every howling, prowling lunatic musician held to this plane by a few strings or a handful of keys or valves, praying not for money or fame or bland, colorless sex, but just the understanding, the message, the pure, glorious communal epiphanies.

To every jaded, snarling poet who mixes and matches and mishmashes words together into beautiful, meaningless ethereal sludge, trying desperately to recapture when they first felt that sublime tingle on the schoolyard or classroom or cafeteria, back before their heartstrings snapped around the mizzenmast.

To every sullen emaciate artist, straining tendons and bones to scratch rock on canvas like the first slack jawed Cro-Magnon did with the blood of his kill, inadvertently creating culture and civilization as we know it that first, ancient time, and reinventing it every time since.

To every soul-charred stoner watching the world with dead eyes, lost and drifting like the beatniks of yore, their roadkill dreams long burnt from their memory, constantly expanding a consciousness now little more than a wasteland.

To every degenerate, thief, anarchist, and bohemian. To every lost soul.

We’ll make it some day. We may hunt the grail for a lifetime, but God damnit, we’ll taste it one day.

We’ll have our magnificent, golden moment.

Never stop chasing the revelation.