I write to ruin Nature - to muddy clear streams, muzzle songbirds, and riddle tree and flower with disease.

I write of the human condition: of imperfection and Hubris and ill-conceived heroics. I revel in inconsistency and selfish curiosity.

I need not be original. My critics will praise me loathingly for my intertextuality.

I will be accused of being too wordy and too brief.

Readers will tire of my intentional repetition.

They will claim that they understood the first time, when in fact they have understood nothing at all.

I will appear engrossed and occupied when I am bored.

I will pour out my soul to a soulless sheet of paper.

It will know me better than anyone

or anything

and betray me without conscience or consciousness.

I will fall on deaf ears and blind eyes,

and smile in the fulfillment of my own prophecy.