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?
The Restless Quill has a new home.
3 years ago