I can’t help but think about how, when I was younger, I’d read about the legions of artists who implodedMorrison, Joplin, Cobain, Hendrix. They disgusted me. They got what they wanted and then what did they do?

Drugged themselves to oblivion. Or shot their heads off. What a bunch of assholes.

Well, take a look at yourself now. You’re no junkie but you’re not much better.

I would change if I could, but so far, ordering myself to shut up and enjoy the ride hasn’t had much of an impact. If the people around me knew how I feel, they’d laugh at me. No, that’s not true. Bryn wouldn’t laugh. She’d be baffled by my inability to bask in what I’ve worked so hard to accomplish.

But have I worked so hard? There’s this assumption among my family, Bryn, the rest of the band — well, at least there used to be among those guys — that I somehow deserve all this, that the acclaim and wealth is payback.

I’ve never really bought that. Karma’s not like a bank. Make a deposit, take a withdrawal. But more and more, I am starting to suspect that all this is payback for something — only not the good kind.

I reach for a cigarette, but my pack’s empty. I stand up and dust off my jeans and make my way out of the park.

The sun is starting to dip to the west, a bright blaring ball tilting toward the Hudson and leaving a collage of peach and purple streaks across the sky. It really is pretty and for a second I force myself to admire it.

I turn south on Seventh, stop at a deli, grab some smokes, and then head downtown. I’ll go back to the hotel, get some room service, maybe fall asleep early for once. Outside Carnegie Hall, taxis are pulling up, dropping off people for tonight’s performances. An old woman in pearls and heels teeters out of a taxi, her stooped-over companion in a tux holding onto her elbow.

Watching them stumble off together, I feel something in my chest lurch. Look at the sunset, I tell myself.