I write all the time. No, you must not have heard - I write all of the time. Whether I do so aloud, in omission, in practice, or in theory am I ever writing. This art of arts drives me to madness at times and I can say so truthfully. It is because I know of its immense importance. Writing is only the single most sacred, and most impossible act dreamt performable. Most days its seems the Possibility itself was the fiction, and the only sort. But then the manuscripts and extant apocrypha, miraculous as they are wouldst need be more of the imagination than already paper forgery insists - which is preposterous. I feel as a frantic priest or a monk, flewn to haunt a self-inflicted solitude inside a garret, and married to mine studies, more faithful than most to their breathing spouse. How is it done? My hair has grown long, my features pale, and my brow very low and serious.
This is of utmost importance and I shall allow for no trifling with its worth. Alack! the way forth demands a wherewithal of experimentation - terrifying - though necessary.
The outlook hence as to mine posting dependant on contingent as likewise courage. I love writing foremost. T'is plausible, though expect no wonders (why you should escapes me) I am the perpetual student in all matters. I know nothing. Also am I disgustingly young; forgive me that if any.