My every day is most pleasantly a procession of endless mundanity. Most folks fail to realize the importance of the humdrum, consistency, the drib drab catalogue of continual blandness, that perfect launch pad for the most vital component of human existence, virulent, unfettered imagination.
Real excitement tends to blunt the illusory, for who needs fiction when actuality fills every need for adventure. The timid mouse however, safely hid away in his protected lair behind the skirting boards, peers gleefully outwards, mind ablaze with all manner of impossible dreams and improbable happenstances. The great writers of fiction seldom act out their fantasies, ‘tis more often the diarist, newspaper reporter, or even poets who stridently mounts a charger to battle dragons, devils, and all manner of unpleasant fellows.
The most outlandish inventiveness tend to arise from the unlikeliest stock, the priest, accountant, that ordinary individual whose thoughts are racked with antisociality and decidedly unnatural desires.