I’m sitting here in this sunlit room listening to the birds from my open window, thinking… Is it crazy to do the things that I love? Where is the ambition in that? But I also know that many a life has been killed by striving. There are many successful people in the world, but how many of them are able to sip their coffee, read novels, poetry, and short-stories and then write their own? How many of them have quality dreams and do quality things? How many of them have true belief in who they would like to be?