I have witnessed poets clinging onto life by the skin of their own words and the finest novelists terrified by the bullet tick of their typewriters, in knowledge that each click is part of a continuous countdown to βThe Endβ. The late night sound of their pens scratching upon paper not made for emotions so raw drives them insane, urges a hunt for something that will hurt them more than who they write for did. I have read poems that scream βsave meβ when the voices of the composers silently echo off cold walls from therapy offices and cracked paint in chapels that forget each of their empty confessions.