All the scheming and plotting in the world won't result in something lasting, transcendent. Anything that's authentic, that's real, comes in the form of a gift. Even if by accident.
Perhaps it is the language that chooses the writers it needs, making use of them so that each might express a tiny part of what it is.
I think we are blind. Blind people who can see, but do not see.
Inside us there is something that has no name, that something is what we are.
What kind of world is this that can send machines to Mars and does nothing to stop the killing of a human being?