The money isn't plentiful enough. The joy isn't deep enough. The book isn't big enough. The aplause isn't sustained enough. The relationship isn't big enough. The ecstasy isn't long enough. The permanence sn't prrmanent enough. The landscape isn't maginative enough. The garden isn't fragrant eoug. And so it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut aid. Life goes on, and everything ends. And along with it, the satisfaction derived from success.
Success is never enough... that the road to success has no end. There's only farther, beyond where you were yesterday, with no end to the walking, the eating, the questioning, the doubting, the frustration of getting a pebble in your shoe, of running out of water, of looking for your next meal, of having your next altercation with someone who is really, really pissed off being a caught unawares on the Road to Success, discovering much to his or her unenlightened distates that he or she was duped, that Success isn't everything it's craked up to be, having known it all the same, but having ignored what he or she knew, hoping that somehow it would be different. Success idn't anything. You can't get there. You can't own it. It doesn't exist. And nothing that's nothing can give anyone anything, other than a longing for something more substantial.
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