I write, I hope, what will be read, but know I write despite it all. I write, I hope, to speak the truth, though know from that great height I’ll fall. I write, and I’ll keep writing still, even when the lights go out. I write, for I must write or die; I write ’cause that’s what I’m about.
Yet still the pen is heavier than I remembered last. It always seems that what I wrote was better in the past. I always seem a truer, deeper, a wiser fool, in retrospect, but striving yet to write the right effect.
Tale Told 