Not everybody thrives on sunshine. Not everybody likes the sound of a happiness that doesn't belong to them. Some of us, only very few, exist only in forced measures of wakefulness. We write by day -- pass out at night. We don't like the way the world spins, how people talk to one another; lying for the sake of face or money. We talk of darkness and burst stars, perhaps even of lives we thought we'd live but the reality is a broken figure arching over a typewriter -- beating away. Howling away the clicking. Knowing better but staying stoic. Get the words out. Get the thought the fuck away. When it is gone the light shines for a moment, just a second -- before it goes out and starts yet another sheet of paper. A writer doesn't love to write. A writer merely suffers until it is gone. 

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