Sometimes I write things that I think are universal, and I send them out on the Internet, and it turns out... no, it's just me.
And sometimes I write things that are just about me, and I send them out on the Internet, and it turns out... yes, it's just me.
Which is maybe why this is a little room we're in now, among the smallest on the distant, hidden alleyways of the Internet. And why you always have to come close
and then sometimes I'm talking a little too loud.
Do you ever have times where every book you read is so good that its success seems simple? And it feels almost like any book you read, of no special renown, will be wonderful, quietly wonderful?
And sometimes no matter what book you read, it won't work. And you'll wonder why the author can't get it right. And that while it seems so simple, a story, a character, a phrase, apparently making a decent piece of art is extraordinarily difficult.
Well I think that must be universal, but maybe it's just me feeling that way.
But maybe, just maybe, whether we love or hate anything in all of art, great or terrible, tiny or magnificent, it's all our own fault.
So let's let all the successes or failures of this one, "The measure of all things", be on you.