It seems popular now for writers to pose the question: why do I write, and then say something profound:

What I have achieved in my professional career, using my real name of Thorfinn Odinson Skullsplitter, has amounted to … nothing. Well, maybe not, depending on one’s view of nihilism and the apocalypse. I have certainly discovered that the human rat is doomed, but maybe some tough mangy ones will kick on for a while. The internet will go black, and books will be used for ass wiping and burning, and both (dried shit is burnable, ask any Indian). Works of philosophical masturbation will be burn even before the tax code. Does it matter? Studies have shown that the majority of published articles are not read by more than the editorial staff. Books, perhaps, only a bit more.

Writing is just a way of thinking in words and preparing for the inevitability of Ragnarok, death and the end of our world. The search for some sort of literary immortality is even bigger bullshit than it once was, because the infrastructure supporting this literary deception, is set to crumble. Oh, bits and pieces fall off daily. At best, we may be able to enlighten a few solid folks, as they dig in.

I have stopped buying books, not only because of lack of money, but also because there is nothing more worth reading. In the quietness and stillness, one needs to prepare oneself for the coming of the Great Death. Not on the page, or in some story, but right in front of us.