I’m not behind my time, not ahead of it. I just sit in ferocious solitude as you have shown me. You couldn’t make music when you felt cold inside. It mattered. They might assume you were once a bohemian clown with squash blossoms braided around your ankles, the way you lean back and cross your legs, enjoying your coffee and omelet of smoked cheese and saffron. They might assume I was a one-eyed raven sitting atop a totem pole in the rain.
Sometimes a rainstorm puts me in the mood for bread, butter and beer, after which I madly wipe the table clear like Nicholson in Five Easy Pieces ordering his sandwich. I slap down an old tattered map with frayed edges, eyes burning with prospects, trying not to forget that there are shadows of greatness, and the shadows themselves, and the greatness itself. The only thing every empire has done is fall.