“I have been in love, and in debt, and in drink, this many and many a year.”
I haven’t done the drink part. Hopefully, I won’t have to.
Mostly, I want to find someplace quiet and begin to get out of being in the red, on so many fronts. There will be an autobiography, if only to let innocent, idealistic young kids know what not to do.
Where do I begin? It all seemed like a good idea. Perhaps it had been.
I had forgotten how crushing the sadness of inevitability can be. There are different kinds of sadness, you see, and while I know many of them, I was foolish enough to hope that I’d be spared this sort. One would think that I’ve read enough Victor Hugo to know otherwise.
Life goes, windwards, as it must.