Do you suppose that maybe all the good books have been written? All the great songs, too? I suppose that Chuck Berry and Dostoevsky left us in good shape so that maybe it doesn't even matter. Me? I replay memories of love and lust and watch marathons of Green Acres re-runs whenever they play.
You think you're special, don't you? Everybody does. Just one more way that we're all alike. It has always amused me that the term, common, is such an insult. It's all the same stardust and recirculated water. We're all common.
Except for Hannibal Lecter, Leona Helmsley, Charles Manson and Donald J. Trump.
The rest of us are common.
Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.