I envy other writers, with their uncanny ability to weave together their thoughts into beautiful stories. I have only the fleeting snippets of memories lost to time, the forgotten tales of characters who never got to be. I wonder if these authors are plagued by their fabrications, not given respite until their very creations’ voices are heard. Do they dream of others lives as if it were their own and become disoriented when their memories become poisoned by these dreams? I feel more than envy, I feel bitter, for their lives lay untainted by their own literary sons and daughters.