This writing thing, it is for lonely people. Indeed it is. When the days are made of good tidings, we need not making a fiction out of the night. It's so true. And yet for some people night is all they have left, for the good tidings come no more, and loneliness is their hideout. Sometimes I too wish I didn't know how to write, but sometimes I watch myself in the mirror, I stare right into my tearless eyes as they are reflected in the cold surface, and I feel thankful for being able to, at least, make some order out of chaos by shaping characters into words, words into sentences. Until one day I'll forget all about it.