I got a short story published in the New Yorker. I just need my big break, that s all. No, there isn t. Yes, that s why I m here. No no, not to celebrate.
Nobody forget it.
About this man a musician, had a couple of hits, got into Rolling Stone, you know. But suddenly found out that he had nothing left to say yet, somehow, he needed a song he needed to write to say something but had nothing to say. So one day he was walking about in the Village and he sees this gray guitar at the window of small basement shop that once belonged to Bob Dylan. No sometimes I wish I did. And I hate it when people think I do that it s always about me.