A Gentle Response to a Thought for the Day...

"Manuscripts do not burn..."

Let me tell you about being a writer, sir. Being a writer is nonsensical and absurd. I am a writer, but I cannot be published.

And as for a cure, or being loved, I can tell you that neither are possible. Indeed, I am the Master, but I am silenced before the world. 

Yes, love is a convenience that some allow themselves - at times - to justify otherwise ridiculous behaviour. Love of writing is no cure, as it drives one mad. Besides, people have seen me burn my own writing... and I can tell you that they burn quite nicely.

I have discussed this before, but, to repeat my conviction, I will tell you that education - the worst of all sins - has led us to believe that what one puts to pen and paper is of consequence or relevance. There are no more writers, there is no more creative passion other than destruction, and there is no cure.

All for which one should hope is not life, nor death - but merely peace. Even that is not my idea.

Kitaev

lonely, cold, and isolated.