I'm all wrote. I've been writing constantly for months now, all for someone else and some other goal. There's nothing left for me. Even when I sit down in the quiet and open up my little book and poise my favorite pen, there is nothing. I think of something else that is a thing I must do and then I can't be still and so I go.

I sometimes wonder what I would've been had I been born in some prior century. My eyesight is awful and perhaps I could not perform fine-motor tasks. Would I have been considered dumb? Or would my condition be commonplace? Maybe I wouldn't have been educated or allowed to leave the house. Any way it comes out, I'm sitting focusless on a chair surrounded by wood. What dormant talents were wasted that today's technology and evolved society have wakened.

But, what aptitude lies in wait for a future apparatus? Without doubt, if I am born centuries from now, I'll be a pilot.