So many things he wants to say, so many that these things can't keep still inside him. They swirl about and they swirl about inside until they get tangled up, and he can't tell one idea from another anymore, and all the while as this tangle is constructed he is continually having new ideas, discovering smart-sounding half-truths which are added to the great mess. And then something happens. Sometimes it's big, but sometimes it's as small as a word. This something triggers an anxiety that causes a great heat in his mind and a stirring in his bowels. And all at once, all of these things which have built up inside of him are ejaculated in a fury of words and sounds and gestures, some of which make sense and others of which are emotions that don't know a better way of being heard but to take advantage of such a flushing of the body and escape the prison in which he has kept them. They come out because they've been kept in there too with everything else, and they cause him to spew a convolution of genius and madness, two things which he does not know the difference between.
Most people listening will not bother to try and separate the two. Instead, people will make this man into an extremist he did not necessarily intend to be. Depending on his and their sets of circumstances, everything he comes to say in his impassioned outbursts will come to be heard as either genius or rubbish. Only one or the other. Either black or white. This is how great men and psychotics are made.
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