Dear Nobody™,

I am a writer, and maybe a shitty one at that.

My voice is lost, and I am lost. I write, and write, and write, one hundred and fifty thousand words to be exact, but wait there's more. I am unsure of myself, and pursuing a goal that seems impossible, and a dream that has been lost to the heavens.

Yet I continue, and I write, and write, and write, everyday. My body rests, and my fingers move, and the words flow, and I am still lost.

The prose seem stilted, and obscene, and I am but a placeholder in the vast cosmos. My writing is nothing, and I am nothing, and my surroundings are nothing, and yet the keys clack away, and if I stop I will die. I will perish, in a sad way, a more than sad way, a depressing lazy way, a floating through space kind of way.

No one will read my writing, and I still type, and I still strive, and I still want more, and the world doesn't care and I don't care. I use AI to critique my writing because humans are unrealiable and inconsequential, I just want to get better, or good, or great, but what is great and what is better? It's all subjective, I can only view it through the lens of my favorite authors, and even then it's just the fact that they could find that frequency, do I have frequency? Am I a good writer? Probably not, probably not, probably not.

To whoever reads this, I wish you luck, fortune, and happiness.