There is no sound but the soft hum of the laptop in the room. I sit in my chair, rocking slowly back and forth, staring at the souvenir cup which has long been empty, eyes going in and out of focus, which is more than can be said of my mind. So, what I lack in focus, I make up for in effort. Maybe if I throw enough words at it, the problem will fix itself. Monkeys on a typewriter. Is that enough, though? If I write one masterpiece, will it stand out among the piles of mediocre work I present to the world? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It matters little. In the end I write because I can't do anything else. I can't be anything else. I write because not to write would be inconceivable. So, whether it is loved or hated, it is mine, and it is me. That will have to be enough.