When a happily married man falls in love with a happily married woman you know there isn't going to be a happy ending. There's always too much collateral damage, shrapnell whizzing everywhere lacerating the innocent parties, to say nothing of the total devastation at the centre, in the heart of the firestorm.
Equally deadly is spending your whole life doing the right thing for all the wrong reasons. You will still end up with the smell of rotting corpses, dead souls groaning in the blackness all around you. At the end of the road, your path will be blocked by a towering pile of feeble excuses poised at any second to topple over and come crashing down, crushing you under the weight of their futility.
After the fall all you can do is crawl out from the rubble, dust yourself down, put on some Dylan, crack open another bottle of wine, and get back to writing the book as darkness wraps its bony arms around you.
Don't look up. Don't stop to think. You haven't got time. This is all there is. Even though you may still be doing the wrong thing.
