Who Knows But That, On The Lower

So Why Do I Write, Torturing Myself To Put It Down? Because In Spite Of Myself I've Learned Some Things. Without The Possibility Of Action, All Knowledge Comes To One Labeled "file And Forget," And I Can Neither File Nor Forget. Nor Will Certain Ideas Forget Me; They Keep Filing Away At My Lethargy, My Complacency. Why Should I Be The One To Dream This Nightmare?

It Took Me A Long Time And Much Painful Boomeranging Of My Expectations To Achieve A Realization Everyone Else Appears To Have Been Born With: That I Am Nobody But Myself.

The Thing To Do Is To Exploit The Meaning Of The Life You Have.

I Am Invisible, Understand, Simply Because People Refuse To See Me.

Power, For The Writer....lies In His Ability To Reveal If Only A Little Bit More About The Complexity Of Humanity.