"Darken in the city, night is a wire...Stream in the subway, earth is a fire...do-do-do-do-do..." SO, I LOOKED A BIT LIKE A MONTY PYTHON SKIT a few days ago, as I projectile-vomited in front of my truck, sending pasty-colored eggs, onions, feta-cheese & orange juice splattering across the storage facility pavement. It had been a rough night. The previous evening's dinner - salmon, asparagus, & garlic mashed potatoes - had not set well as I'd tossed n' turned in my sleep. I'd felt okay when I'd first gotten up, thought I'd noticed some ominous stomach gurgling when standing in the shower after breakfast. Dane wasn't feeling well either. We had left early in the day to move the contents of his storage unit, and we had to roll down my pickup's windows as the two of us seemed to be in a farting contest. We'd barely made it through one trip when it became clear we'd gotten food poisoning. We cut the day short, got back to the house by one, then I spent the rest of the afternoon dry-heaving in the toilet while trying not to shit myself. I don't remember much of the day, but I know we ended in bed after it got dark. My dreams were filled with images too disgusting to blog, though I do recall waking up around 5am Friday - intertwined with Dane in my once-white sheets, surrounded by damp half-eaten Oreos. Apparently, he'd gotten cookies in the wee hours - and had brought a handful to bed. He'd also emptied my barf-bucket, picked up all the wet Kleenex, grabbed more Gatorade, and still found time to make a little snack. I didn't realize that it was possible to feel both "sweet" & "sweaty" at the same time, but, regardless, I still couldn't shower fast enough when I got up.
The whole experience made me think of my late Grandmother, on the day she overcame both her constipation- and her racism - on the same afternoon. Gram had lived with my parents at the time, and as an old Catholic woman who used the N-word with the frequency of "the," she was a relic of the 1940s who was completely out-of-step with late 1990s political-correctness; we often had to warn her about language before taking her to the grocery store. She saw no problem with the N-word; it was how Polish women of her era actually talked. She also had an issue with the wetbacks, the hippies, the Methodists, and "the gays" - that is until both my sister and myself came out of the closet. I used to joke: "Hey, Gram - look at it this way: Father has someone to watch sports with, Mother has someone to go shopping with ... just not the kids they originally thought." (That usually got me a dirty look.) But going back to constipation, Gram like to eat hearty Polish cuisine: eggs, sausage, potatoes, fatty lunchmeat on buttered bread, sauerkraut n' bean pierogis with salt & sour cream - and anything fried in Crisco. It's as though her diet was intentionally designed for gastric-distress, so when the fried bologna sandwiches finally caught up to her on a different Thursday afternoon, we realized that she hadn't experienced a bowel-movement in over a week when she literally crawled up the basement stairs, pushing a basket of laundry.
Shit.
After being rushed to the hospital, Gram spent the next three days taking oral laxatives and twice-daily enemas. "We're going at her from both ends," the friendly black nurse liked to joke, though the doctor was far more serious: "It's been so long since Stella's had a bowel movement, her body has gone septic - and there's a chance we might lose her." It was a sobering moment to hear Gram's situation, and the family began to gather. For the next 72 hours, we kept a vigil in the nearby waiting room as the African-American nurse rolled by twice a day with a cart filled with towels, gloves, hanging rubber bags of warm liquid, hand sanitizer, and a shop-vac tube with a special attachment that looked like it came from my basement dungeon.
The end seemed near when a miracle happened on the start of the fourth day, as my Father & I opened the door to Grandma's room. As soon as we entered, we were hit by a smell as putrid as a port-o-potty, and we instinctively brought our fists to our mouths, trying not to swallow the air. "We just had a breakthrough, and Stella's gonna' be alright!" the nurse happily chirped, as she peeled off her gloves and threw them in the trash. Before we could stop her, she went on to explain: "She was so impacted, her fecal matter had solidified. It felt just like a coil of brown Silly Putty. I actually had to crouch between her legs, and pull the feces out like a garden hose." I went to ask about HIPPA rules, but Father stopped me: "Well, I'm glad she's okay. If you don't mind, we're going to - COUGH! COUGH! COUGH! - give you ladies a little privacy, if that's alright?" The helpful black nurse was happy to oblige, and Father & I ran from the room. God could only imagine how humiliating it must have been for a racist old Polish woman to have a young black nurse literally pull shit out of her ass, like dragging a wet cat by its tail. Not surprisingly, in the days, weeks, months, and years to follow, we never heard the N-word from Grandmother's mouth again.
The whole experience made me think of my late Grandmother, on the day she overcame both her constipation- and her racism - on the same afternoon. Gram had lived with my parents at the time, and as an old Catholic woman who used the N-word with the frequency of "the," she was a relic of the 1940s who was completely out-of-step with late 1990s political-correctness; we often had to warn her about language before taking her to the grocery store. She saw no problem with the N-word; it was how Polish women of her era actually talked. She also had an issue with the wetbacks, the hippies, the Methodists, and "the gays" - that is until both my sister and myself came out of the closet. I used to joke: "Hey, Gram - look at it this way: Father has someone to watch sports with, Mother has someone to go shopping with ... just not the kids they originally thought." (That usually got me a dirty look.) But going back to constipation, Gram like to eat hearty Polish cuisine: eggs, sausage, potatoes, fatty lunchmeat on buttered bread, sauerkraut n' bean pierogis with salt & sour cream - and anything fried in Crisco. It's as though her diet was intentionally designed for gastric-distress, so when the fried bologna sandwiches finally caught up to her on a different Thursday afternoon, we realized that she hadn't experienced a bowel-movement in over a week when she literally crawled up the basement stairs, pushing a basket of laundry.
Shit.
After being rushed to the hospital, Gram spent the next three days taking oral laxatives and twice-daily enemas. "We're going at her from both ends," the friendly black nurse liked to joke, though the doctor was far more serious: "It's been so long since Stella's had a bowel movement, her body has gone septic - and there's a chance we might lose her." It was a sobering moment to hear Gram's situation, and the family began to gather. For the next 72 hours, we kept a vigil in the nearby waiting room as the African-American nurse rolled by twice a day with a cart filled with towels, gloves, hanging rubber bags of warm liquid, hand sanitizer, and a shop-vac tube with a special attachment that looked like it came from my basement dungeon.
The end seemed near when a miracle happened on the start of the fourth day, as my Father & I opened the door to Grandma's room. As soon as we entered, we were hit by a smell as putrid as a port-o-potty, and we instinctively brought our fists to our mouths, trying not to swallow the air. "We just had a breakthrough, and Stella's gonna' be alright!" the nurse happily chirped, as she peeled off her gloves and threw them in the trash. Before we could stop her, she went on to explain: "She was so impacted, her fecal matter had solidified. It felt just like a coil of brown Silly Putty. I actually had to crouch between her legs, and pull the feces out like a garden hose." I went to ask about HIPPA rules, but Father stopped me: "Well, I'm glad she's okay. If you don't mind, we're going to - COUGH! COUGH! COUGH! - give you ladies a little privacy, if that's alright?" The helpful black nurse was happy to oblige, and Father & I ran from the room. God could only imagine how humiliating it must have been for a racist old Polish woman to have a young black nurse literally pull shit out of her ass, like dragging a wet cat by its tail. Not surprisingly, in the days, weeks, months, and years to follow, we never heard the N-word from Grandmother's mouth again.
"Woman, you want me, give me a sign...and catch my breathing, even closer behind..." The radio was playing "Hungry Like the Wolf," as I pulled up to Touche with a shit-eating grin on my face, listening to WLS in my truck. I try not to live in the past of course, but the station plays 80s music every Friday & Saturday night, and like my Father used to listen to Dick Biondi on the 50s/60s station, the music of the 1980s are now considered OLDIES. I parked, shut the engine, gathered my phone, vape, & reading glasses, and then headed into the bar. Once inside, I was greeted by the usual gang of kinksters, and Friday Night hilarity ensued. As mentioned in this blog, I love Touche on weekends. It's the one time a week where I can hang with the guys in the same way a straight man lives for bowling nights. I know all of the regulars, and many are greeted like "Norm" from Cheers. I'm reminded of the sitcom's famous theme song:
🎶Where everybody knows your Recon screen naaaaaame...!"🎶
Some time ago, I met a 50-year-old Chicago pup named "Nibbles;" he approached me in the clubroom, and he complimented my gear. He appreciated the fact that I take BDSM so seriously, and as we were both near the same age, we started talking about our "era." "These young guys today," Nibbles said sadly, "They just don't appreciate the sacrifices that were made by the Boomers or Gen X'rs." He went on to describe the famous gay men of the past who'd paved the way for the lives Gen Z'rs live today: *Harvy Milk. *Paul Lynne. *Liberace. *Truman Capote. *Freddie Mercury. These days even The Village People seem all but forgotten, though their music still remains on WLS's weekend playlist. I bought him a drink and gave him a hug, then watched as he scampered away like Tigger. I then found a spot in John's section, and chatted with him in between customers as the club quickly filled with people.
The night went on and the patrons came & went. I thought about Nibbles, and the melancholy behind his words. At midnight, in the club, within the red & white lights, Touche takes on a magical feel - an oasis of Old Guard Leather, open nonstop since 1977. I was still drinking the first time I hit Touche in the 90s, but I do remember how it felt the same as today - a home away from home, so to speak. Back in the day, when I lived in Joliet, I used to start the night early, and hit The Hideaway & Nutbush off Roosevelt, before solidifying a buzz and driving drunk to the leather bars, deeper in Chicago. I was young & stupid back then. I was *literally* hungry like the wolf as I threw up everything I ate but the booze. It would be decades before I'd realized that I had multiple personalities, and though most of that eras memories are forgotten of course, I do still have three budging scrapbooks with bar advertisements, logo'd matchbooks & cigarette lighters, and scraps of paper with long-forgotten phone numbers. Back then, I had a leather jacket with fringe, and the same Sketchers boots that Joey wore on Friends. When considering my 1990s-hair - a bulletproof swoosh of highlights & hairspray - I looked absolutely ridiculous. But I do remember listening to WLS on the drive, when Duran Duran was still new. I also recall hitting Escapades hours later as the sun was coming up, the last-chance of the last-chance bars, a shithole with a 5am liquor license, just off the 55 on the way home to Joliet.
Those were dark times ...
🎶Where everybody knows your Recon screen naaaaaame...!"🎶
Some time ago, I met a 50-year-old Chicago pup named "Nibbles;" he approached me in the clubroom, and he complimented my gear. He appreciated the fact that I take BDSM so seriously, and as we were both near the same age, we started talking about our "era." "These young guys today," Nibbles said sadly, "They just don't appreciate the sacrifices that were made by the Boomers or Gen X'rs." He went on to describe the famous gay men of the past who'd paved the way for the lives Gen Z'rs live today: *Harvy Milk. *Paul Lynne. *Liberace. *Truman Capote. *Freddie Mercury. These days even The Village People seem all but forgotten, though their music still remains on WLS's weekend playlist. I bought him a drink and gave him a hug, then watched as he scampered away like Tigger. I then found a spot in John's section, and chatted with him in between customers as the club quickly filled with people.
The night went on and the patrons came & went. I thought about Nibbles, and the melancholy behind his words. At midnight, in the club, within the red & white lights, Touche takes on a magical feel - an oasis of Old Guard Leather, open nonstop since 1977. I was still drinking the first time I hit Touche in the 90s, but I do remember how it felt the same as today - a home away from home, so to speak. Back in the day, when I lived in Joliet, I used to start the night early, and hit The Hideaway & Nutbush off Roosevelt, before solidifying a buzz and driving drunk to the leather bars, deeper in Chicago. I was young & stupid back then. I was *literally* hungry like the wolf as I threw up everything I ate but the booze. It would be decades before I'd realized that I had multiple personalities, and though most of that eras memories are forgotten of course, I do still have three budging scrapbooks with bar advertisements, logo'd matchbooks & cigarette lighters, and scraps of paper with long-forgotten phone numbers. Back then, I had a leather jacket with fringe, and the same Sketchers boots that Joey wore on Friends. When considering my 1990s-hair - a bulletproof swoosh of highlights & hairspray - I looked absolutely ridiculous. But I do remember listening to WLS on the drive, when Duran Duran was still new. I also recall hitting Escapades hours later as the sun was coming up, the last-chance of the last-chance bars, a shithole with a 5am liquor license, just off the 55 on the way home to Joliet.
Those were dark times ...
"In touch with the ground, I'm in the hunt, I'm after you..." Speaking of dark times, I was thinking of Virginia Woolf this morning, as I read my latest rejection letter from one of my queries for When People Go Away. The letter was the usual Thank-you-for-your-submission-but responses, and I wasn't disappointed at all as the letter came within 24hours of my initial query - which meant that it had been read. I've written about the querying process in previous blogs, and how hard it is to get an Agent's attention. I'm constantly trying new query-styles, and I'd decided last week to attempt something completely different: rather than personalizing my query to a specific agent, I've taken to discussing the Literary World as a whole. Virginia Woolf was revolutionary for her day, and she's known as a modernist writer, who debuted a stream-of-consciousness style - as new as Capote's "Nonfiction Novel" style. When People Go Away debuts The Quantum Fiction Genre, a completely new way of telling a story, with a plot structure shaped like a Dragon Fractal.
Woolf was known for her Feminist themes, which perfectly coincided with what was happening in the world at the time. During the 1920s, women had achieved the right to vote, and their suffrage mirrored the changing roles of females as a whole: women were no longer stay-at-home housewives...they had finally *started* to be taken seriously in professional capacities, like science, religion, business, and academia. Woolf was a trumpet of the feminist movement, and her novels pushed boundaries for others in her era, especially during the World Wars. Her popularity faded after WWII sadly, but her work enjoyed a reemergence in the 1970s, long after her death. And that's the *mark* of a good writer: a body of work that perfectly captures an era.
But it's her stream-of-consciousness style that will always be her trademark, in the same way that Capote brazenly built his stories & characters around real-life people. I've been thinking about both Woolf & Capote while marketing When People Go Away, not so much in their narrative style, but how both writers were perfectly in-tune with their own, individual places in history.
With that in mind, here's a sample of how I've been personalizing my queries:
On a personal note Mr. Agent, in addition to a lifelong reader, I was a Barnes & Noble ASM for 18 years. I am intimately familiar with bookselling from a reader’s, writer’s, and retailer’s perspective, and I have boots-on-the-ground knowledge of customer tastes, sales trends, and the changing landscape of the literary world as a whole. The last truly original novel I read was Andrew Davidson’s brilliant 2008 work, The Gargoyle – which I wrote a brief review of within my December blog. The Gargoyle was staggering, but its timing was off; had the publisher “sat on it” for 5-8 years, the novel would have been a bestseller – and ushered in a new way of telling a story.
It seems like every agent I query is looking for “a new take on this,” or a “different spin on that.” Everyone wants the familiar; most agents seek the time-proven, and seem hesitant to read something new. But the world has changed, Mr. Agent…it’s hard for a novel to keep our attention when we’re texting on smartphones, listening to iTunes, and meeting people through social-apps. Quite frankly, we’ve gotten lazy – and we’ve completely forgotten the joy of “escaping” into a writer’s world, like Caleb Carr’s vivid emersion in The Alienist's 1890s Manhattan, Michael Crichton’s cinematic prose – or the simple joy of Fiver’s cozy warren in Richard Adam’s Watership Down.
When People Go Away capitalizes on technology, and encourages readers to keep their iPhones close when reading the novel. The reader is told to play musician’s YouTube videos when the story references atmospheric songs, which are woven through the text within crucial scenes. I intentionally reference specific singers, artists, writers, and directors – knowing the mention is just a Google search away. My prose is precise with not a word out of place, and there is a difference between “red” and “crimson.” When People Go Away is deceptively easy to read, with a new narrative style that’s designed to challenge the reader, with five increasingly-bigger payoffs that will leave you in not tears, but sobs, once you complete the Epilogue. I have included one of these big reveals at the end of this message.
Woolf was known for her Feminist themes, which perfectly coincided with what was happening in the world at the time. During the 1920s, women had achieved the right to vote, and their suffrage mirrored the changing roles of females as a whole: women were no longer stay-at-home housewives...they had finally *started* to be taken seriously in professional capacities, like science, religion, business, and academia. Woolf was a trumpet of the feminist movement, and her novels pushed boundaries for others in her era, especially during the World Wars. Her popularity faded after WWII sadly, but her work enjoyed a reemergence in the 1970s, long after her death. And that's the *mark* of a good writer: a body of work that perfectly captures an era.
But it's her stream-of-consciousness style that will always be her trademark, in the same way that Capote brazenly built his stories & characters around real-life people. I've been thinking about both Woolf & Capote while marketing When People Go Away, not so much in their narrative style, but how both writers were perfectly in-tune with their own, individual places in history.
With that in mind, here's a sample of how I've been personalizing my queries:
On a personal note Mr. Agent, in addition to a lifelong reader, I was a Barnes & Noble ASM for 18 years. I am intimately familiar with bookselling from a reader’s, writer’s, and retailer’s perspective, and I have boots-on-the-ground knowledge of customer tastes, sales trends, and the changing landscape of the literary world as a whole. The last truly original novel I read was Andrew Davidson’s brilliant 2008 work, The Gargoyle – which I wrote a brief review of within my December blog. The Gargoyle was staggering, but its timing was off; had the publisher “sat on it” for 5-8 years, the novel would have been a bestseller – and ushered in a new way of telling a story.
It seems like every agent I query is looking for “a new take on this,” or a “different spin on that.” Everyone wants the familiar; most agents seek the time-proven, and seem hesitant to read something new. But the world has changed, Mr. Agent…it’s hard for a novel to keep our attention when we’re texting on smartphones, listening to iTunes, and meeting people through social-apps. Quite frankly, we’ve gotten lazy – and we’ve completely forgotten the joy of “escaping” into a writer’s world, like Caleb Carr’s vivid emersion in The Alienist's 1890s Manhattan, Michael Crichton’s cinematic prose – or the simple joy of Fiver’s cozy warren in Richard Adam’s Watership Down.
When People Go Away capitalizes on technology, and encourages readers to keep their iPhones close when reading the novel. The reader is told to play musician’s YouTube videos when the story references atmospheric songs, which are woven through the text within crucial scenes. I intentionally reference specific singers, artists, writers, and directors – knowing the mention is just a Google search away. My prose is precise with not a word out of place, and there is a difference between “red” and “crimson.” When People Go Away is deceptively easy to read, with a new narrative style that’s designed to challenge the reader, with five increasingly-bigger payoffs that will leave you in not tears, but sobs, once you complete the Epilogue. I have included one of these big reveals at the end of this message.
"Smell like I sound, I'm lost in the crowd, and I'm hungry like the wolf..." I actually came up with this idea from watching the guys at Touche (myself included) using their phones in the bar, checking social apps while talking to dudes in person. I chuckled to myself on realizing this: "Maybe if I strike out in the clubroom, I can still snag a Recon hookup on my way back home tonight." I suppose I'm just like everyone when it comes to multitasking, and in the modern world - which has changed completely from the 90s with my Grandmother - even a soon-to-be-55-year-old Leather Dude needs to use all options available. Sure, I feel like a dirtbag sometimes, but at least I'm an efficient one. I mean, even WLS plays the same songs again & again, and after five hours in the club, it's not uncommon to hear 🎶Hungry Like the Wolf🎶a second time, as I head back home at four in the morning, changing the radio station to find a different song.
Of course, the bittersweet irony is that things in the club really haven't changed at all since I first started hitting leather bars, back in the late 1990s. As a Gen X'r, I came of age during the heyday of HIV, and it seems like the era of untreatable AIDS has been all but forgotten as I watch the fabled 2am rush, where drunken Gen Z's stumble into the clubroom, looking for companionship because their Grindr trick ghosted them. Everyone's on "Prep" these days, and they think that because they're protected from HIV, they've gained invincibility. Sure, drugs like Truvada reduce viral loads to "undetectable." My intention is not to shame people of course, but rather to reduce unnecessary suffering - and to keep history from repeating itself. The gay men of today have forgotten the heartbreak of the men who came before them, the gays approaching 60 like me, the men who lost the people we l o v e d. Not a Saturday goes by when I'm not haunted by these memories, and I'd give anything to be the man I am today, but to be back in the time when that fact mattered most.
When People Go Away approaches the topic this way:
“Stay away from the back room,” Frankie reminded him. “The way the young guys get fucked along the wall is like watching animals in heat.”
“I’m on Prep, Sir.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s Prep,” Jordan repeated. “It keeps me safe from catching anything.”
“You mean, catching HIV?” Frankie clarified.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You do realize that HIV is AIDS?” Frankie told him, setting down his pen.
“But Prep makes it undetectable,” Jordan said.
“But it’s still AIDS.” Frankie reminded him. “Just because it’s undetectable doesn’t mean it isn’t deadly. Fuck, your generation pisses me off sometimes! Guys your age have completely forgotten what gay life was like for Gen X’rs, back when HIV was a death sentence. HIV was completely untreatable from the 80s through the mid 1990s. AZT was garbage. Its side effects were chilling. I mean, the cocktail didn’t even hit the market until late 96’, and until that happened, if you got infected with the virus, you had anywhere from six to twelve months to live!”
*Silence.
“I think Prep is disgusting,” Frankie said bitterly, triggering a momentary coughing fit.
*Silence.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Jordan backtracked. “I never thought of it that way.”
*Silence.
Frankie inhaled, then let out a long, slow sigh.
*Silence.
He coughed into his fist again.
*Silence.
His demeanor softened.
*Silence…
“That’s fine,” Frankie continued, changing the subject. “I trust you, Jordan. Besides, you deserve a night off. What time does it start?”
Of course, the bittersweet irony is that things in the club really haven't changed at all since I first started hitting leather bars, back in the late 1990s. As a Gen X'r, I came of age during the heyday of HIV, and it seems like the era of untreatable AIDS has been all but forgotten as I watch the fabled 2am rush, where drunken Gen Z's stumble into the clubroom, looking for companionship because their Grindr trick ghosted them. Everyone's on "Prep" these days, and they think that because they're protected from HIV, they've gained invincibility. Sure, drugs like Truvada reduce viral loads to "undetectable." My intention is not to shame people of course, but rather to reduce unnecessary suffering - and to keep history from repeating itself. The gay men of today have forgotten the heartbreak of the men who came before them, the gays approaching 60 like me, the men who lost the people we l o v e d. Not a Saturday goes by when I'm not haunted by these memories, and I'd give anything to be the man I am today, but to be back in the time when that fact mattered most.
When People Go Away approaches the topic this way:
“Stay away from the back room,” Frankie reminded him. “The way the young guys get fucked along the wall is like watching animals in heat.”
“I’m on Prep, Sir.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s Prep,” Jordan repeated. “It keeps me safe from catching anything.”
“You mean, catching HIV?” Frankie clarified.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You do realize that HIV is AIDS?” Frankie told him, setting down his pen.
“But Prep makes it undetectable,” Jordan said.
“But it’s still AIDS.” Frankie reminded him. “Just because it’s undetectable doesn’t mean it isn’t deadly. Fuck, your generation pisses me off sometimes! Guys your age have completely forgotten what gay life was like for Gen X’rs, back when HIV was a death sentence. HIV was completely untreatable from the 80s through the mid 1990s. AZT was garbage. Its side effects were chilling. I mean, the cocktail didn’t even hit the market until late 96’, and until that happened, if you got infected with the virus, you had anywhere from six to twelve months to live!”
*Silence.
“I think Prep is disgusting,” Frankie said bitterly, triggering a momentary coughing fit.
*Silence.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Jordan backtracked. “I never thought of it that way.”
*Silence.
Frankie inhaled, then let out a long, slow sigh.
*Silence.
He coughed into his fist again.
*Silence.
His demeanor softened.
*Silence…
“That’s fine,” Frankie continued, changing the subject. “I trust you, Jordan. Besides, you deserve a night off. What time does it start?”
"Burning the ground, I break from the crowd..." The Meaning of Life becomes clearer as you get older, and like it or not, only the strong survive. It's the law of nature, I'm afraid. The hard times are just as necessary as the good, and the secret to survival is learning from the past, so unnecessary mistakes are never made again. But it's the strongest of the strong who know that even mistakes are needed, in order to gain the wisdom needed to reach one's full potential. Within the leather community, the Wise Old Daddy Bears are the men with the combined knowledge of the past, present, and future. And it's the *future* that holds the best possibilities - and the pride of a pride that proudly reveres its elders, as we are the men who understand the true meaning of life, and the importance of loving everyone who surrounds us. I think of this concept each and every day, from the mornings I wake up with cookie-crumbs in my bed to the afternoons when I sigh audibly when another query is rejected. There is something to be said about tough times making us stronger, but that's not actually the way I've been looking at my life.
You see, despite my harsh history, I'd never have reached the serenity I have today had things not gone exactly the way they did for my era - and When People Go Away would never have been written.
True joy is found in reaching one's potential, and I can already feel my own.
And when that day comes, I know that I'll be ready ...
I am hungry, like the 🎶 W o o l f 🎶.
- Sir Dave
You see, despite my harsh history, I'd never have reached the serenity I have today had things not gone exactly the way they did for my era - and When People Go Away would never have been written.
True joy is found in reaching one's potential, and I can already feel my own.
And when that day comes, I know that I'll be ready ...
I am hungry, like the 🎶 W o o l f 🎶.
- Sir Dave