doesnt this describe what i know of the scorpions movements that day , and , strangely enough , doesnt it also describe me right now , the doubt i feel when i question the details of what really happened all those years ago , the indecision that makes the choices i do make appear less than ideal within minutes of choosing them , the uncertainty that makes me question my ability to portray the simplest aspect of a story , and the anger i feel at myself for allowing my own petty concern over my artistic struggle to overwhelm and upstage my art ?