He was still young and had plenty of time, or so he thought, yet he would never play better than he just did. He knew he had to accept it and move on to the next thing to excel at, but could not, as this was all he loved in life and he knew not whether it would come back. So he continued playing and played badly, or so he thought, yet the people loved him. And the more he played the less he thought of himself until inside became outside and the people hated him and ending up in the gutter he did. He wished he had moved on when he could not and resented himself for not doing what he should and ending up without love for doing what he loved. Life was tricky he thought, as he picked himself up and left behind all that was once dear, to piece himself together again. Again and again, until utterly scattered, he ended.