I wonder how others are able to read what they've written days or months or years ago and not cringe uncontrollably did I really think that? was that how I felt? what was I thinking then? jesus fucking christ I read and reread my favorite authors and am always moved by their ability to capture a feeling in a given moment and I wonder, do they respond to their own work as I respond to the words I have committed to this great, vast cloud in the sky? do they realize the profound effect they have on the reader? Is that what separates the great writers from hacks like me? or do I judge myself too harshly, does familiarity breed contempt? am I able to tap into the zeitgeist or am I tilting at word-shaped windmills? and in the end, when I say what I have to say and tap "publish" do I get lost in the meaningless cacophony of the electronic void? or are my words lying in wait for their next unsuspecting victim ready to pounce with all the force of a thousand crouching tigers? I don't imagine I will every truly know.