Ever so often, I come across people whom I sense to be like myself. In another word, they are losers. They want to become something more, and at the same time believe that they will become something more, something greater than the mundaneness in which they are now mired. I am like that myself. I believe that some time in the future, an opportunity will present itself, and the work I will love more than any I’ve ever had to do; and thus will I propel myself towards astronomical greatness. But at the same time, I know that I am merely fooling myself with the gleam of a dream. I will never be anyone special or important, and my works will never amount to anything significant, nor will they ever be read with anything more than a casual eye. That is my destiny; I am to become no-one. So whenever I find people out there who write as if they believe in their own writing, and still more, state clearly that they want to develop a career in writing; but who at the same time, stand miserably with an empty plate in hand; I laugh. I laugh not only at them, these wishful fools, but also at myself.