It doesn't make a lot of sense unless you've read the play/seen the movie, but what the hell. If you're on here in the first place, you probably have nothing better to do with your time anyway.
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It was exhibition night again, but this time, it wasn’t his.
Under a lamppost stood two fragile men. Daniel, the adored and revered mediocrity, and Mozart, the loathed genius. The way Zebedeo’s spirit broke, and the diminishing sand that Daniel built his castle of ego on connected them both in frailty more than they’d ever been in talent.
“You never beat me, you know.”
“I know, Zeus.”
Leaned drunkenly against the outside wall of the Gallery, shirt and pants zipper undone, beer in hand, Zee almost shrunk into an ordinary man. If it weren’t for the God sparkling in his eyes amongst his mess of hair, he might have even been mistaken as common. Unable to shake off his own mortal coils, Daniel was, to the trained eye, nothing more than the exemplar of fetid traditionalism and stagnant security.
In his squalid state, Mozart did not notice himself falling, only Daniel rising high above him. It unsettled them both, so Daniel slid down next to him on the ground; prostrate only because he felt God should know he is not a guiltless man.
“Mediocre.”
“The Patron Saint of Mediocrity, please.”
An insane giggle.
“I’m the best.”
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Y Fin!
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