I’ve been addicted to the flight, the albatross reason and the eternal search for something I couldn’t explain or give or create or destroy. Some people wander and travel because they enjoy it. I did it because I had to.
And the culture of a tramp deepens with every turn of the key and every palm that has to be greased, every dime counted, or foreign coin stolen. We were rebels who became gutter-punks. We were royalty who lost an empire and a home, but gained the gift of loyalty and empathy.
Along the way, the writer in me was born.
Anybody who has remained unwavering in his or her passions, amidst the stench of betrayal, unemployment, and humiliation — has to become a writer.
Your mind wouldn’t know what else to do.
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