Clichepagetica
O writer, O author, O poet, O scribbler... Heed me...
In vain dost thou seek thine own voice. In vain dost though seek an audience even as thouest findeth it.
For, verily, there is nothing new under the sun, and if thou dost succeed at all it is not by thine own design but only because thou standeth on the shoulders of giants.
A curse be unto thee that claim sciens on thine own scrawling. Yea, a curse... Thine words will be but sound and fury signifying nothing. The world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Yet thou plays thine bit part as if thou wert Hamlet.
The tide riseth, and in vain thou sit before it. In vain dost thou cry stop. If thou moveth not then thou shalt surely drown. Yet thou sits. Fearing the mockery of the other fools arrayed beside thee... Coward!
Thine audience is the tide, and you moveth not with it. Surely O writer thou shalt soon be swept away. Out with the old, in with the new. Thus the wheel turns always.
Yea, O writer thou art thrice cursed; Thine audience moveth and thou see it not. Thine audience speaketh and thou hear it not. Thine rules bind thee and thou feels them not.
In much wisdom is much grief.
O writer, O author, O poet, O scribbler... How I sorrow for thee. For thou knows not the true power of words...
The light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not...
In vain dost thou seek thine own voice. In vain dost though seek an audience even as thouest findeth it.
For, verily, there is nothing new under the sun, and if thou dost succeed at all it is not by thine own design but only because thou standeth on the shoulders of giants.
A curse be unto thee that claim sciens on thine own scrawling. Yea, a curse... Thine words will be but sound and fury signifying nothing. The world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Yet thou plays thine bit part as if thou wert Hamlet.
The tide riseth, and in vain thou sit before it. In vain dost thou cry stop. If thou moveth not then thou shalt surely drown. Yet thou sits. Fearing the mockery of the other fools arrayed beside thee... Coward!
Thine audience is the tide, and you moveth not with it. Surely O writer thou shalt soon be swept away. Out with the old, in with the new. Thus the wheel turns always.
Yea, O writer thou art thrice cursed; Thine audience moveth and thou see it not. Thine audience speaketh and thou hear it not. Thine rules bind thee and thou feels them not.
In much wisdom is much grief.
O writer, O author, O poet, O scribbler... How I sorrow for thee. For thou knows not the true power of words...
The light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not...