The writer is the creator and destroyer of thoughts. He breathes words in his mind, and sentences them to their execution. Every period has its ending. The ink that spills over into this world is the testimony left behind in their passing.
The life of words is a short one. They are uttered as quickly as they are forgotten, and inspire as long as they are uttered. Pleasure is found in their death, not their memory.
The mausoleum of words grows, and visitors run on without a moment of rest. The constants of life keep the passerby too busy to pay respect to those who have left us behind. Be wary. One day there will be no words left to write.