The Future Is A Dream

I wonder if there's a word that can accurately describe certain dreamers. They do more than rest their heads at night and let their minds bloom into a boiled pot of past sights and sounds and new automatic cloud thoughts. They make it their life and work. They draw, paint, film, play, sing, and write the electricity that bursts inside them. People like André Masson, Michel Gondry, Sandra Cisneros, Jean Cocteau. They should be celebrated, instead of living as a short blip of notice from time to time and dying quietly as the black marks of language in our books. For they are like the aerials of a radio or a television, fine-tuned on fancy and fantasy.

Pipilotti Rist is also one of those people.