My failures take up most of the room in my memory bank. Business, romance, art, blah, blah ad nauseam...
Sometimes I try to make myself feel better by telling myself that I'm just not a salesman. I'm not. How do I know that anybody would have ever bought it if I had been a salesman.
Occasionally I have been close to the right place at close to the right time. I've zigged as fashion zagged. When it's time for psychedelia I've moved to hillbilly music. When Americana gets hip, I quit the club.
I would battle dragons for love but I surely won't beg someone to stay.
There's a fine line between principle and self destruction. Success and suicide aren't many pages apart in the dictionary.
Survival's on the same page, more or less.
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