I won’t be a good writer ever. All what I have done is a kind of effort to try to be important in the written world. But I’m not enough disciplined, I’m not enough knower, I’m not enough wise. My tragedy is not special, I’m not special. This path I have followed lead me to misery and unseen poorness. My written roads seems to be unnecessary. I don’t have motifs for living, for write or read or research or being. Nowadays Rilke’s told abut continuing is not longer applicable for me. I’m quitting about writing since past year. I did not got anything but fulfill my egocentric desire for write. I quit writing, quit creating, quit being a poet. I won’t worth enough. I won’t be enoughly good, and it’s all right. I put all my heart on what I’ve done. I gave everything, nothings keeps on me. Finally it is your twenty first century, not mine. Keep it doing that well.