A thought
I don’t like to think of myself as a writer. Nor do I like to compare myself to my inspirations, like Hunter S. Thompson or Beckett, even if I see the parallels. There is me, and there is what came before me. I don’t think it is appropriate to find myself in a man who lived a way I can never understand or in words that I may never know the real purpose behind.
Probably because I’m not a writer.
