One right now...

He was amazed by the fact that he was not the only writer living, not the only young man with a locomotive in his chest, not the only youth with a million hungers and not one of them appeasable, not the only one who is lonely among multitudes, and does not know why.

There's always a siren, singing us to shipwreck. A dark voice telling us we're not good enough and that it is in fact, not going to work out at all. Some of us may be more susceptible than others, but there's always a chilling whisper following our journey. It may be with us all our lives, or it may be many years before we find it or it finds us. But when it does rear its treacherous road, if we're lucky we're Odysseus tied up to the ship's mast, hearing the song with perfect clarity, but ferried to safety by a crew whose ears have been plugged with beeswax. If we're not at all lucky, we're another sort of sailor stepping off the deck to drown in the sea.