I see now, world, what you conspire to do. What you've been doing all along. If writing is my destiny, and the world works to manifests our destinies, then the world which has always been my enemy is, in fact my greatest ally and mentor. To birth this disgusting, twisted worldview of a novel, I have to lose everything, everyone, every hope and every desire other than survival until this offal is smeared across my existence and my hands and eyes.
Everyone who has ever hurt me, broken me, damaged me, altered me, tried to fix me - your efforts are in infinite vain and infinite importance. To have anything else happen would not create the believable tale of a man who had everything and pissed it all away, when he never had anything to lose - anything he cared about losing, anyways.
