To realize that all others are writing such meaningful pieces of work, each of which forms a rung for them to press their foot and climb ever higher, while I am here, on this sequestered island, fiddling with my emotions, and attempting to fit them with fancy formulations, is all rather disheartening. How childish and paltry and purposeless! I am getting nowhere. These words, they travel only to the unfeeling void; never profiting me in any lasting way apart from that fleeting pleasure of turning dew into stone. But is not that pleasure also present in those who write meaningful pieces? And what is more, they get to experience the feeling of accomplishment; of their work being purchased for analysis, and receiving praises for its luster. I believe that there is nothing more delightful to an author than these.