broken by a life of self-love

before he was hit by a car, my friend jack only really gave a damn about himself. As a matter of fact, I only call him a friend because he lived close by. No one liked him and that was okay with him only because he didnít like anyone else. He could paint like a motherfucker, a real howard roark, but he died wailing alone and miserable. Iíd rather love than create. Itís a better investment of time.

2004-10-22 | 11:25 a.m.
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