What purchase have I upon this ledge of words I build? I sit atop it like a proud mason some days, forgetting my mortar has yet to set. Who can claim words, however strung together, his own? Who is the brick maker -nevermind the brick layer; he follows a pattern, the pattern of some, many masons before him. So you read Seneca and his urgings toward a smooth style—alright then, lay your bricks smoothly. So you read Nietzsche and aim to philosophize with a delicate hammer aimed at chords tuned for only particular creatures—alright then, you lay your bricks carefully. So you love the volume of Dostoyevsky—very well, hurl your eloquence and make a tall wall for only patient climbers to ascend. But I am not the maker of bricks, nor even that of a particular style. Why then read or heed me? Well, perhaps not for smooth or delicate or voluminous words. Perhaps I write for my own mind. Perhaps do not mind my words at all, for they are my own guide, my own distraction, my own indulgence, and my solace. If I guide myself, then very well, even unto my own walls, and over them.