“My stuff comes from the fact that my life has been miserable,” he says, slowly and deliberately. “I now don’t believe I have the capacity to be happy. I would settle for peace of mind. I’d give anything for that. But it’s been a completely wasted life. Completely and utterly wasted.” For a moment, I think he might be about to cry. “Everything just seems to get worse and worse. I can’t see that much great stuff going on in the world, you know? I would rather be happy and have no act. Some would say I’m unhappy and still have no act.” He manages a smile.