It’s a cool October night and blues musician Robert Johnson trudges alone down a dark road in the Mississippi River Delta. His only company is his shadow, cast by the full moon overhead. As he walks he thinks about his sorrow. He thinks about the jeers and the shouts for him to get off stage. He reaches the crossroads of US 61 and US 49 in Clarksdale and falls to his knees. In his misery he lets out a cry that pierces into the night. It is a cry of weakness. Of jealousy. Of fear and the anguish of failure…

Miles Fertel

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