BUT I KNOW that would be selfish, because what is almost too much to bear sometimes is the tide of misanthropy that any sentient can feel washing up on stage or ebbing in little by little in the control room, at the D & R party, in the restaurants as the cats kept expecting us to play the parts of the vicarious vessels for their impossible Dionysian dreams and at once resent us for a presumed privilege nobody could actually claim: that of being perfectly happy and utterly free. While success is an addiction--no denying--I really would be quite satisfied if some storm trooper for mediocrity intervened, abducted me and Mick and whomever else and sequestered us in a cooling tank until the world forgot about the Stones or the Stones gave up on the illusion of the World. I could use a psychic transfusion.
Would save me a lot of pain along the way. Anything that was never wrested from my hands I had to gradually loose the grip on alone. Better to tug off the adhesive bandage in one swift rip, love. Then we'll apply the medicine.