The bottomless realization that no one has ever envied me wisely.

Life careens from one near miss to another, punctuated by moments of stoned, drunken, musical, bookish, sexual, biophilic or otherwise forgetful bliss, a clear escape from time

Beyond that there's no stability, no still center other than terror.

I wanted to make money, to survive, thrive and be seen to have worth because of some inherent and somewhat unique ability, not just because I was a cog in the machine. And for me this had to come down to my own words, to the magic of laying the line.

I had it all worked out, and the only thing I needed was money.

And for the first time, but not the last, we reached that stage in the relationship when everything I did annoyed her, and the only ways forward seemed to be to collapse in on myself, hide in the closet or under the bed, or simply cease to exist.

I looked back, once again, on my failures with women.

Sometimes I must remember that words and music can be better than drugs.

I found out too late that I was not a serious person, and had lived a ridiculous life.

The world has never needed you, a situation that will not improve with age.

Of course I'm a legend in my own mind. Why wouldn't I be the main character in my own quiet, kitchen-sink story?

It's dull, but compelling. No plot and all story, a journey to the center of the self, obsessed with moments empty and alone.

Fifteen years and I'll be old, if not elderly. I've got shoes older than that, T-shirts.

Add another 15, if I'm lucky, and we're really getting up there.

Thirty years, say. More than enough for a life.