Trying to create a world in your twenties is like building a house with dynamite. There's no pieces of sanded wood. There's no nails or cement or stucco. There's no architect, designer, or foreman. There's just you, hocking ideas that explode into something, into nothing, or into the wrong direction. How anybody makes it out of that long stretch of ten years, I have no idea. The idea of what you could have been becomes a myth, an apparition that if chance, luck, and ***** didn't get you on the same path at the right place and the right time, you'll always be chasing. Nobody tells you the present is an illusion. Life is nothing but chasing after something that can't ever be caught. I know that now, but I didn't back then.