I had this dream, where I sleep and make money, the web made it possible.

… but I’ll doubt I’ll succeed.

I need to do more things than just write. I need to market, but whatever.

I love the sound of typing with my keyboard.

For some reason I know that I’m filling the void.

I’m speaking to an empty space. Not yet discovered.

I have a dream, to be somewhat famous writer.

I want to give it all away, because I have so much to say.

The urge, the creative urge drives me insane. I want it so bad.

For years I’ve been producing and yet – nothing happened.

I think this dream is too big for me. Becoming a writer.

Being a writer is hard, even though the text spills easily.

Is it bad – to have a dream, to want more out of life?

I want more out of life, but I have no clue how to take everything.

It’s hard.

Probably I’m doing wrong things. Who needs millions of posts? Who wants more? Nobody’s waiting for the next post.

It’s just me and the void.

The void won’t make me famous, rich and won’t give me pussy.

I became a writer because I have so much to say. As if the whole world was in me.

I want it bad. I want more. I want it so bad. But I’m never good enough.

All my efforts go to waste. The people don’t know what they want.

I have written millions of letters and more are coming.

But the question is: who’s reading what I produce?

The writer never knows the reader.

But every writer needs a reader.

It’s just me and the void. It’s me speaking into the darkness and my words will fade when I’m dead.

Nobody’s going to remember me when I’m gone and nobody will come to my funeral.

I’m useless. I’m worthless but still I’m doing my own thing.

I don’t need any competition because there is nothing to compete with.

The void won’t make you rich.

I never wanted to work but I never wanted to be without money.

The problem I see here is that how ever I look I need to work.

Working sucks, I rather would write my blog and hope that someday success will come.

But it’s just me and the void.

It’s hard to be a success. It appears that author’s preface really matters.

As if people care who am I!

I am a human being who needs some love.

But this harsh place won’t give you any love.

The loneliness, the soloiness and the real struggle.

I want to make it so bad.

But for some reason I get bad cards.

I’m never good enough when I try.

But I’ll keep trying until I’m dead.

Something good will come out, someday, somehow, someway.

But maybe not today.

I’ll keep trying because I want it bad.

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