Doesn’t it worry you, writing all the time that is, boiling every idea in your head into a word into a sentence into a paragraph into a story, if it can even be called that? Doesn’t it worry you that the day is coming, and you probably knew from the start it was coming, when you’ll be face-to-face with the fact that you are just like everyone else, like what does “you” even mean? They give you a name, you never chose it and even if you indulged in the pretentious choosing a new name at this point you know that deep down it still wouldn’t be your name. So, doesn’t it worry you? Shouldn’t it worry you? Let’s say you are one of those bastards who doesn’t feel a goddamn thing half the time and you can’t imagine something getting through that hard-shell exterior, should it still bother you, whether you choose it to or not? That the whole thing kind of stays dormant otherwise. Waiting, nonetheless. Does it bother me? What is a “me” in this situation, but just another you in disguise? Aren’t we all we and all of you are you and all of me are me. Doesn’t it worry you?