I am well aware that no one reads this, that the "you" I often refer to is none other than the "no one" who reads this. I blame this, of course, mostly on you because I do not think you read. Of course, I also know that what I have to say in here is of no interest to you, which is to say, it is of interest to no one. I am long seasoned in making work that no one cares about, so we—rather, I—am in a familiar world whose contours my hands have walked along for many years. I am a writer without an audience. I have always been that. Remarkably, I have also always been a writer. An audience would not complete this, as with, say, a play. I am a little angry with you this morning, so I am basically dismissing you altogether. You aren't needed here. I do this for myself, for the sheer pleasure I take in writing. It is the way and the why I have always written, for myself, because I love it and because I am compelled beyond resistance to do so. I write because I must. Yes, I have grown strong wings, yes, I grew the strong wings of ambition, only to have them atrophy, but I can still put my words together with atrophied wings and no other eyes to read them but mine. A person who is born a writer will die a writer, the act of writing exists independent of any subsequent act of reading. But as I am a writer, I am also a reader, so there is completion in that. I am telling a story, that story is a very large story, only the future is large enough to contain it. So your absence does not concern me, you do not have big enough eyes to see the future, where the large stories live. Perhaps on another morning, I will not be angry with you, and I will once again believe in you, but on this morning, on this morning I do not. It is good that you do not exist, you cannot therefore feel my wrath—it is a soft wrath, but it is wrath nonetheless. But that means also—I am happy to report this loss to you—that you cannot feel my love when I am loving you, which I experience as strong and burdensome.