When I finally wrote the album I believed in, the album I’d been dreaming of, I thought all those years demonized by depression were over. The words were powerful, unforced, backed with chords that felt like my heartbeat. I was happy. Things were right, finally fulfilling. And becoming famous seemed to confirm my enlightenment.
But a year of fame later, and I’ve fallen hard. Almost cracked. Since I can say any damn thing I please now (these fans hail as genius every flippant thought that enters my head) all chances of difficult, miraculous transcendence are gone. Gobbled up by hype-worshippers.