On a conscious level, I've been going 'yeah right, load of fucking bullshit', but on a personal subconscious level, I've been wondering just how hard the grey jelly inside the skull got rattled around by the whole, you know, dropping dead for 3 minutes thing.
So someone commented on rock criticism being 'lit-crit for the illit' and I produced the following paragraph. While I'm not viewing it as any sort of actual masterful wit or something, I can at least look at it and know that I still have a working brain in my skull.
Which I've honestly been uncertain about.
lit-crit for the illit would be...commentary on the oeuvre of Danielle Steele as measured against that of Victoria Holt? The leitmotif of Big Black Dots in any comicbook drawn by Jack Kirby, and its meaning in the face of the early-1980's resurgence of Galactus?
...good god, I can't believe I used 'leitmotif' and 'Galactus' in the same sentence.