I once wrote a short story called 'The Best Blues Singer in the World' and it went like this: 'The streets that Balboa walked were his own private ocean, and Balboa was drowning.' End of story. That says it all. Nothing else to say. I've been rewriting that same story over and over again. All my plays are rewriting that same story. I'm not sure what it means, other than life is hard.

August Wilson (April 27, 1945 – October 2, 2005)


Photo Credit: Travel/Cranes Nesting In Madrid, Spain. Socrates Black, Digital Image. ©️2017.