It often happens that one feels an urge to create incessantly, abundantly, insofar as to let something else other than reason leash his words. He has nothing to meaningful to say, nor has his pen any passion infused in its ink; and yet he rages to craft something, anything. “For what purpose?” He asks himself – but he cannot quite figure. Perhaps it is a fear that, in his climb to the top of Parnassus; that were he to slacken and lose his pace, he would tumble back down to the foot of the mountain and there have to make the great effort of beginning the climb again. How this threatens his ambition; and it is for this reason exactly that his mind shall refuse to admit of wariness, to surrender its pick to the cold, freezing insipidity of the moment.