I am deeply fascinated of a writer who has troubles putting a glass of whiskey down, or going through a day without lighting a cigarette. Or the kind of writer who can’t fit another tattoo on his sleeve and live below the means of his living. Somehow, the kind of writers whose lifelines are within their addiction seemed to have louder intellectual voices than the ones who don’t. The kind of writers who was then a pest in his town, is now the great mind behind every penny of a thought. I could never write like that. I could never write a piece so great it moves every particle in your body. I don’t drink to the state of scribbling every beautiful and blurry thoughts at the back of a $12 receipt. I don’t smoke to blow imaginations out and pick them by pen and jot them down on a novel. I don’t have a tattoo nor have i ever experienced hunger and ultimate depression and heartbreak. I’ve lived a fortunate life and I suppose there is a certain level of sadness in that.