The narrator's dream was to be a famous musician, but after several years of dark, empty nightclubs, broken promises, bands that kept breaking up and producers who seemed excited about everyone but him, the dream soured
The narrator buried himself in accomplishments, believing he could control things and squeeze in every last piece of happiness before he got sick and died like his uncle
Morrie refused to be depressed and instead became a lightning rod of ideas, jotting down his thoughts on yellow pads, envelopes, folders, and scrap paper