Same Old Story

The script doesn't quite change. Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin, Cobain...Winehouse. Dead at 27.

In my misspent youth, my eyes would've filled at genius, hacked down at its prime.

Now, mostly, I shake my head at addiction, self indulgence: the sheer futile tragedy that talent seems to bring in its wake.

What price credibility? What price immortality?