Beauty is commonplace. Yet, the sublime is not. And, therefore, to write, as an artist, one must be unusual. Simultaneously, one must reference, albeit obliquely and cleverly, all that has been written before. Always show; never tell.
Yet, all the moments I have rendered most sublime are those in which I use commonplace words, and gestures that I have repeated. How, then, does feeling in the sublime capture everything that has gone before it and yet offer itself as discovery? How is it possible that nothing in the sublime is opaque any longer, and yet its unravelling is neither frayed nor worn?