It's Better Than an O-Pe-rrra, A letter to the Efficients

We talk of battles to be won, and here he comes like Don Quixote, It's better than an Opera.
He actually believes these things. We'll play along, because it's entertaining.

It's hard not to feel like this. By writing, your audience presupposes you can write, or at least they presuppose you think you can write. The same things happens when someone on the train bursts into song, hoping someone will recognize their hidden talent. This could be their big break. What happened to the quality? Why aren't the best paintings never seen? Why don't the books that are worth reading disappear in a move more consistent with humanity? A living sculpture that acts as we do. Shouldn't they disappear? Shouldn't they be filled with spelling mistakes we can't prove? Aren't we responding to material that disintegrates as soon as we leave? The people running the rides on Coney Island need to go home. They need to sleep. They need to dream of substance. Given the chance, they might remember what they were planning on doing once the show closed. Once the island broke off from the mainland and sailed on a ship made of history books that sink as they go, descending further and further from the truth until all thats left is the Captain who stands on a floating soapbox, giving sermons to the fish and the bugs that live off of him like parasites. So it is written. Like Ishmael I keep but sorry guard. "With the problem of the Universe in me, how could I- being left completely to myself at such a thought engendering altitude, how could I but lightly hold my obligations to observe all whale ships standing order, 'Keep your weather eye open and sing out everytime.'" I end up hoarse, dampening my pencil that sweats with the perspiration of inspiration, yellowing my fingertips like cigarettes, erasing as I go.