Clown Town Drunk in Book Title.

I haven’t written anything of merit in a lifetime of narcissistic thought records. That’s a comfort. Disappointment is an external concept, like time and presence. Despite occasional efforts, these states exceed my capacity to embrace the irrational. Their perception is still very concrete according to outside sources, however. I gather. I’m not a great listener and this default has significant effects on my analysis of the subject. At any rate, it comforts me to fall short of any self gratifying mark concerning the endless prose I’ve produced. A degree of self assessed ‘goodness’ is a sort of reverse limbo stick- a long jump pole, perhaps. I have nothing to prove, having proven nothing. A person, having set a personal best, can never retire from himself.

Failure is for those willing to qualify success. It’s the void for me, dears.