What

Every writer must self-criticize to exist. 

I am slowly getting closer to the truth. Well, whatever, to intimacy. 

A life cries meaninglessly, tirelessly, waiting for a hope to drop by. 


What could my ramblings serve anyone? Are books just massive 100 pages imaginary ramblings of insane disturbed people?


So many choices and I doubt I am making any of the right ones.