No matter how loud the guitar is and how much you jump around and sweat and get angst-ridden, eventually you have to go home, be polite, and kiss your mother on the cheek.
ยท
No matter how loud the guitar is and how much you jump around and sweat and get angst-ridden, eventually you have to go home, be polite, and kiss your mother on the cheek.
“Lost on a fogbound spit of sand
In shoes that pinched me, close at hand
I heard the plash of Charon’s oar,
Who ferries no one to a happy shore.”
W. H. Auden