I love the success of others : all those radiant houses
and homes wherein successful dreams dwell - the
things brokered by daring and sweat. The guy with
the thirteen cars and the extra garage he had to have
built to house his big collection, and his wife, Helen
Eddy, with her constant compulsion for happiness chores.
I know it's not ever for me, any of this good fortune. I've
failed at even putting models together - all that Revell
stuff with glue slobbed everywhere. Like one of those
Potemkin homes with pasted over windows, that's me.
Boarded up grossness covered by sticky paper happy
flowers. What's the difference if I walk or ride:
going nowhere either way.