You might wonder: how does an overeducated Volunteer fan feel about the game? How does "hallucinating in the key of Wim Wenders sound?" to you? If the answer is "too bizarre for digestion," then read no further; if not, then please, venture into the dark caverns of Holly's subconscious 24 hours prior to the Gators coming to Knoxville.
CUTCLIFFE: Tell me, muse, of the storyteller who has been thrust to the edge of the world, both an infant and an ancient, and through him reveal everyman. I'm an old man with a broken voice, but the tale still rises from the depths, and the mouth, slightly opened, repeats it as clearly, as powerfully. A liturgy for which no one needs to be initiated to the meaning of words and sentences.
MAJORS: Are there still borders? More than ever! Every street has its borderline. Between each plot, there's a strip of no-man's-land disguised as a hedge or a ditch. Everyone carries his own state with him, and demands a toll when another wants to enter. The soul of today can only be conquered and governed by one who arrives at each small state with the password. So everyone migrates, and waves his one-man-state flag in all earthly directions.
MARTIN: To lie! Through one's teeth. As you're walking, to feel your bones moving along. At last to guess, instead of always knowing.
To be able, once in a while, to enthuse for evil. To draw all the demons of the earth from passers-by and to chase them out into the world.
CROMPTON: Where are my heroes? Where are my own, the curious ones, the first, the original ones? Name me, muse, the immortal singer who, abandoned by those who listened to him, lost his voice. He who, from the angel of poetry that he was, became a poet, ignored or mocked outside on the threshold of no-man's land.
Wait! I want to know everything.
You figure that out for yourself. That's the fun of it.