I understand you want to go to India. You want to see things and believe that you’re the first one to do so. You want to write music in vastly promising fields and smoke cigarettes while frolicking through satirically perfect towns. You want to be poor but not too poor. You want to write about the beauty of the places you go; about the beauty of the thoughts you conjure up. And that’s a beautiful way to think. But let me ask you, did that beauty make you? Did that beauty make me?

Your dreams will end more quickly than they began. Your cigarette will soon be out and you will then be alone in those towns with nothing in your pockets except your hands, which will be far too busy mending your broken dreams to have time for any other task. That’s when you’ll realize that your songs may be wistful and your ideas may be magical, but many people before you have had thoughts just the same and have even acted upon them and perhaps bared your same name. But none of that really matters. You are simply a cloud in the never-ending sky. You claim that you wont follow suit. You swear you wont end up as a doctor or lawyer or junkie. But in the end, your thought doesn’t matter because your hero’s voice will soon take over and remind you that art is just art and humanity will survive just the same.