I think that people who fail, or who are in the process of failing, or are temporarily failing, or have decided to devote their lives to failure, seek and try to at least hold on to a lifestyle they deem privileged. They find hangouts they can be comfortable in, ones that they can frequent for free or just a few dollars here and there. They share the hangouts with each other and accept an occasional upwardly mobile type. They comfort each other in their self inflicted circumstances. They don’t try to lift each other out of the condition they share out of a fear of being left behind. A short life with their peers in misery trumps a long, lonely life in despair. They live hard, think deep, love shallow, commit never, sleep rarely, and if good will is at all with them, die early.

The whole act of failing for these folks is a state of mind. The longer they stay in the state the more they wish to. The doors to their chosen hangouts thin, the windows shrink, the rustic floors begin to warp. Over time the ambiance imprisons them, the rustic brick facades extend one brick at a time until the views are layered over and the sweet sunlight is no more visible. Until the beauty of humanity is no longer acceptable in their minds. Until their souls are as dark as the corners of the mahogany bookcases lined with dusty books they only stare at and never read. Time stands still. The music takes on a deadening beat, one that stays with them night and day, until the day and night become one, and they cannot distinguish either. Until they close their eyes and only see darkness for an eternity.