It's not glamorous....

The dreams are, the somedays. The actual work? It's f*cking work.

The compulsion, the dream? Kills itself everyday the minute you clock in.

It's imaginary suicide, day after day.

Ah, fancy, writing you say? Must be lovely. Must be dreamy. You look at a stack of books sitting on a shelf and you can imagine the joy that went into it's creation, the $5 thrill you have reading it. That parallel world like your own but completely different. Dreamy. Just dreamy.

It's a f*cking nightmare.

Everything is work, waking up, pimping your hair, the driving in, the clocking in, the staying in till the clock strikes three.

You can imagine the big promotion, but that takes commitment. More than you've given yet. More than you've earned.

You are your very own Cogsly Cog, bitching about the production and the pennies and that one word that will make it all click.

Such a fantastical f*cking myth. Fantasy...

Finished chapter 13 did you say? DING, fries are up.

It's not that easy, fooling a fool.