It Was So Much Easier To Be

Love Is Not Sufficient. It Never Has Been. Stories That Claim Otherwise Are Lies. There's Always Something After Happily Ever After.

You Deicde, And You Make Our Night What You Want. Brilliant And Ours. Stupid And Theirs.

He Fell In Love With Manhattan's Skyline, Like A First-time Brothel Guest Falling For A Seasoned Professional. He Mused Over Her Reflections In The Black East River At Dusk, Dawn, Or Darkest Night, And Each Haloed Light-in A Tower Or Strung Along The Jeweled And Sprawling Spider Legs Of The Brooklyn Bridge's Spans-hinted At Some Meaning, Which Could Be Understood Only When Made Audible By Music And Encoded In Lyrics.

The Truth Is, Anyone Who Puts So Much Of Herself And Her Life Into Art As You Do Must Naturally Fear Any Failure In That Art As A Potential Threat To Your Life. And So You Protect Your Art More Than You Protect Your Health Or The Common Forms Of Happiness The Rest Of Us Have. And You Probably Have This In Common With Every Artist You Admire.

The Strangest Thing. I Came To The End Of Other People So Quickly. Each New Person Was Like A Glass Of Water, And At The Beginning I Was Parched, But Then Each Glass Tasted A Little Worse, The Water Was Grittier, And By The End Even The First Sip Was Enough To Make Me Gag, You Know?