“Monk was my man.”
It was late. We were in the tiny little studio apartment I’d rented as a camp-out spot, till a decent situation presented itself.
“How does it come to pass that artists of that stature spend their lives scuffling like rats in the alleys?”
“That is sin, my friend; that is the definition of sin.”
“Who are the sinners?”
“Always comes back to the people with the money.”
“But having money’s not a sin.”
“What you do with it might be.”
“Have enough of it and you can do whatever you want and still come out smelling good.”
“Are we just jealous?”
“Shouldn’t we be? Haven’t we worked hard?”
“You’ve got a point there.”
“No one should be allowed to have too much money.”
“How much is too much?”
“Too much is more than you need.”
“Good luck with that one.”
“There should be a cut-off point. This much - and no more. Why should anyone be allowed to accumulate so much? Can you think of a single person who does something that’s that valuable?”
“How valuable is that?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
We sat in silence for a while pondering the injustice of life - a recurrent theme with a shifting pedal point.
“Let’s listen to ‘Round ’ one more time.”
“I could do that.”
Then we sat back and witnessed pure beauty.
It almost made things better.
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That's what I used to say till all these assholes who are trying to scam me popped up. Die motherfuckers, die.