I feel it such a waste, or rather, such a disappointment to my own self, were I to enter into a job that requires very little of good and precise language. That is what I take the firmest pride in; writing. Furthermore, I would feel so much like a captive beast, beating against all sides of the cage, begging to write something of worth, perhaps redolent with a touch of poetry; to point out the tiny cracks in sentences, or that a comma really ought to be a semi-colon; and I would wish so dearly for them, my friends, my superiors, to see the work that I am able bring to the table. But right now, where I am at, good language hardly matters. And I find myself so aimless; my soul lacking in luster and purpose.