This life’s supposed to be built on triumph and heartache, tragedy and ecstasy. The worst and best experiences form a whirling dervish of sorts and inform the highs and lows that wind up on the page as they’re flung loose. When there’s no tragedy or ecstasy to speak of it takes going out and finding some. The secret of it is: it’s easy. Those peaks and valleys are so easily obtainable that one has to wonder why we don’t all spend our lives partying and crashing, fighting and fucking. If we’ve a mind to we can step out and find these things right now, but here we are. We fall into stability (or instability) and remain there. I suppose that’s our tragedy, our something worth writing about.