What if your life is only enough for a mere autobiography—perhaps written under a pen name so you could sign it twice—and maybe a footnote in someone else’s? Would you simply accept it or rather bother every poor bastard who happened to sit next to you on the bus with your tarradiddles as you cooked them up in hope of finding your very own charming little spot to survive eternity? I asked myself these exact questions while watching Peter O’Toole in Wings of Fame. There is only a lifetime to find the answer.
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