Genius
The genius sits in his parlor and broods.
It’s not the brood of a brooding genius; it’s garden variety, non-productive brooding, just like anyone else. He’d never been the broody kind of genius – his best work had always come in bright flashes, not in the dim.
No, this was just a run-of-the-mill deep pit of doubt. For the genius had never really seen any greatness in his own work. But wasn’t that really just as self-absorbed? The world loved it, and who was he to argue with the masses?
Reality TV is a harsh mistress.
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