“You need to cut off toxic people to realize the value of your life Your circle gets narrower as you get older because you realize the importance of quality.”
That parade pit full of sharp tongues and sharper elbows, the bandmate who saps the sync with every sidelong snark, the “friend” whose vibe drags your downbeat into the dirt? They’re the static, the bleed-through buzz that muddies your signal till the whole set feels like swimming upstream. Cut ’em loose—not with a fanfare or a farewell fill, but a quiet clip, like snipping a frayed cable mid-gig. No eulogy needed; the space they leave? That’s the revelation. Suddenly, the kit rings clearer, the pulse pounds purer, and you clock the worth in your own whack: this life’s too finite for the false harmonics. Age does the rest—the slow cull, winnowing the wide-open jam circle down to the handful who lock in without a look. Quality over quantity: the vet who trades war stories over weak coffee, the rare soul who hears your off-script sway and sways back. I’ve shed more shadows than spotlights over the years, each trim tightening the groove till the circle’s small but ironclad—fewer voices, but the harmony hits home. Your life’s value? It sharpens in the shrink, emerges in the edit. Prune the poison; the beat that remains? It’s yours, unalloyed. The narrower path? It’s the one that thunders.