One
day you’re going to write the best thing you’ve ever written, and you won’t
even know it until maybe years later. You’ll just go on, blissfully producing a
steady stream of increasingly mediocre drivel.
And
what’s worse, no one will read it, this masterpiece of yours, and it will
disappear forever into some dusty hard drive in some server farm cavern. Never
to be seen again, unless data archeologists stumble across it in a thousand
years, like some digital Lascaux.
Van
Gogh died a pauper, and you are no van Gogh.
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