I think of Fats Waller whose left hand leaped down the keys, showing the path for every jazz pianist who followed, including the great Art Tatum and the minor Billy Joel.
In my life I’ve gathered maybe five perfect rocks. It isn’t that they were smooth or handsomely speckled with rare minerals. No, they were often misshapen, pitted, easily forgettable.
A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.
If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.