Jack, it was the liquor that took you, and it was your gaze at me from the page of a book that made me believe it would take me too. If we, the creatives, the crooks, the crazies, are to live for our art and forsake all else, will we not then die for our art as well?
It was you who made me truly believe that madness and success come together in a package, wrapped in brown paper of chaos, with a shiny red bow of addiction to decorate. It was you who told me with your photographed face, with that sideways smile on that beautiful face, that it is possible, plausible, permissible, to write a book in three weeks with no revisions, hopped up on speed and mild diner coffee.
It was you who made me say I wanted to go into the mountains alone with no one and nothing to aid or protect me, and come face to face with God.
Jack it was you that urged me to take to the bottle, to fill up on whiskey before spilling my blood on the paper. It was you that whispered in my ear, "You can be great, you can be inspired, you can be a legend, if only you torture the passion out of you."
From you I learned never to rest in one place for too long. From you I learned to have no ties to my fellow humans. From you I learned that intoxication and belligerence lead to the highest art forms.
It is you I have been battling with, Jack, your beautiful mess I have run from, your artful insanity that has taken me to the edge.
I see your corpse at the bottom and wonder, Shall I jump?
What does it take to be a master of your craft?
It was the liquor that took you, and it may still take me. I live for this art; will I not die for it as well?
I love this
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