I can't concentrate on finance, man. How do the squares do it, day after day after day? There's a massive universe out there, and they're writing about ETFs and shit. It makes you think, doesn't it?
Let me tell you something: writing a simple song lyric is as hard as nuclear physics. I mean, a lyric that works, that has reality, you dig? That's why it's not fair that Hal David is often considered Burt Bacharach's junior partner. And it's why I'm so incredibly pissed off at the moment. I have one complete great song - which is no use to anyone by itself. And I have a wonderful piece of music with no lyric, just a fucking title. This isn't a laughing matter. I need to get myself out of the shit, soon. And I'm not going to get a job in a bank, am I? Not that banks pay any more. A hedge fund, then. I'm not going to get a job in a hedge fund, am I? I'm a shaman. Pure. Aloof. Superior. You understand, don't you, dear reader(s)?
I've been squeezing a lemon all over my window sill. Any spiders who want to get in now will have to run the gauntlet of lemon. Enough is enough! I'm playing hardball with these bastards.
I should be out in the fucking sunshine, enjoying life while I'm still reasonably young. But I'm writing this! Later on, after lunch, I'll be doing a conceptual, No. 17. There's no rest for the wicked. / One day, I'll get what I want.
I'll be taking a week off soon, the week after next. I'm not going anywhere though, like my beloved Cornwall. One summer I'll go for six weeks or more, after my ship has come in, just travel around. I once went for eight weeks in winter, between Polperro and Looe. St Ives is my favourite place. I love the beaches there. It's a shame I can't surf (or swim). 'Mikey don't surf!' I could do a Bodhi. 'We'll get him when he comes back in.' He's not coming back.
Let me tell you something: writing a simple song lyric is as hard as nuclear physics. I mean, a lyric that works, that has reality, you dig? That's why it's not fair that Hal David is often considered Burt Bacharach's junior partner. And it's why I'm so incredibly pissed off at the moment. I have one complete great song - which is no use to anyone by itself. And I have a wonderful piece of music with no lyric, just a fucking title. This isn't a laughing matter. I need to get myself out of the shit, soon. And I'm not going to get a job in a bank, am I? Not that banks pay any more. A hedge fund, then. I'm not going to get a job in a hedge fund, am I? I'm a shaman. Pure. Aloof. Superior. You understand, don't you, dear reader(s)?
I've been squeezing a lemon all over my window sill. Any spiders who want to get in now will have to run the gauntlet of lemon. Enough is enough! I'm playing hardball with these bastards.
I should be out in the fucking sunshine, enjoying life while I'm still reasonably young. But I'm writing this! Later on, after lunch, I'll be doing a conceptual, No. 17. There's no rest for the wicked. / One day, I'll get what I want.
I'll be taking a week off soon, the week after next. I'm not going anywhere though, like my beloved Cornwall. One summer I'll go for six weeks or more, after my ship has come in, just travel around. I once went for eight weeks in winter, between Polperro and Looe. St Ives is my favourite place. I love the beaches there. It's a shame I can't surf (or swim). 'Mikey don't surf!' I could do a Bodhi. 'We'll get him when he comes back in.' He's not coming back.
