Cool, cool, cool, cool, ...

Cool (x2)
Cool (x5)
The other day, I read somewhere that no work of art worth something has ever been a result of happiness. That ought to be wrong, right? Common, tell me?* I had been avoiding even the jotting down of my own thoughts, which I do on a haphazardous non-stop basis, until I could manage to get a hold of joy or something along the lines of it. A good deal of time was spent on it. That can't have been all for naught. The belief that a masterpiece like The Rolling Stones' Play with Fire is merely a consequence of misery must be a contagious load of highly convoluted dogmatism forcefully fed to an empty vessel of a mind. It is my belief that all such pieces come from a connivance of uncertainty. And not in a way that leaves one's thoughts in turmoil. But in one in which the grayness of life's mechanics are embraced and put into use for further improvement. Love and hate, desire and disgust, joy and sadness, pride and shame, hope and fear; these all are the very same thing. Often, misguided they are. Some might say, or all. But none shall be cared for.
P.S.2. It's the undisputed belief of the writer that Play with Fire is The Rolling Stones' best song.
P.S.1. Those repetitive cools come from Brooklyn 99.
P.S.4. The post scripts have no certainty in their order.
P.S. (The last one; or not) This merely is an attempt to troll the reader.
BTW, the handsome lad in the picture is Mick Jagger.
*You can answer. Of course, that is if you can.