On The Subject of writing and its inherent romanticism. The only question to determine whether you're a writer or not is why are you writing? And then, do you want to? Charles Bukowski is probably the only writer that ever literally wrote to survive and maintained his honesty. Meanwhile, for the writers of the world, (by no means all) there seems to be a lot of the attraction of writing one's life away and feeling ever so self-important as a result. In High School I dabbled in the area of writing and got the English Teacher Taking Me Aside from every English teacher I had besides one, who told me that the phrase "amplified silence" could not be used in fiction because it was impossible to amplify silence. Notably, I didn't quite mind that he didn't like my style. I very actively persued the life of a writer, as you said, the life of a "professional child." In the same light as Godot, I also came to the realization (freshman year in college) that there was nothing else in life I could do aside from wanton creation and concepts. These are both things you don't get much money for. But I went for it anyway. My Freshman English professor told me that I didn't need to attend her classes anymore because I could probably teach them. I was a "writer." The question at that point though was whether or not I wanted to be. It strikes me, in hindsight, as how remarkably I had always been protected from misinterpretation. Its actually quite a terrible thing when you write a poem about the "blind people" and how much you love them and hate them at the same time, only to have someone turn around and call you a mysoginist. Aside from that, there is also a point for redundancy; in my case, the things I truly loved could no longer become merely subjects for poems, it seemed that if you make something beautiful out of something beautiful, you cheapen its original beauty. It struck me as horrendous and disgusting, as well as terribly pretentious, to take the beauty of life and actually attempt to duplicate it in a well-structured form. Seymour said it best, as usual: "The Human Language Conspires To Desecrate Everything On Earth." ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! PLEASE KILL YOURSELF SO THAT WE MAY ROCK. >? 1 1 3 3 8 SSSSS UUUUU X X ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!