Good writing starts with a naked idea pleading for some brave soul to give it wings, lifting it beyond the heavens. But along that path to eternity, most fall captive to cowards, thieves, whores and pimps—destitute slaves to worthless gods; disguised dogma that wallows in timidity—hell-bent on dragging those who dare to venture beyond the fray back into the primordial muck, where fear and envy masquerade as sage advice. The path to Truth is wrought with pain and failure. Graves are filled with bones of souls from those who never ventured further than the tales of courage written by others. Few dare to climb where men and women of virtue stand alone with the scars of originality borne from the very same flesh that brought defeat. From the fruits of failure, on this lonely mount, one will find Truth. And, like Sisyphus, it is only then you can rest— for a just a fleeting moment—because soon it will be time to write the next line.