writer drops a rock down a well. He watches longingly. Wishing it were him. He waits for a moment for the impact. The moment passes, unsettingly so. The well must be endless. He sits on the lip and begins to speak about being an artist. He hates the critical attacks. He hates the critical praise. Both hurt him deeply. He speaks of the interviews, articles, and women. But he wants to change people, to help people. But all he is is passing entertainment. He is entirely replaceable, and his desired effect will never come to be. There would be no important difference if he were dead. As he expresses his feelings on the matter, we hear a loud thunk. An impact. Followed by an echo, and a long distorted reverb. Changing from a splash to a ring to a metallic jolt to a melodic hum and further. He continues undisturbed, the loudest of it only sat within one of his painfully thoughtful pauses. If I die they will devour someone else. I wanted to change them but they changed me. They are not prepared. They do not even want to be. All they do is gobble. A misremembered scene from Stalker, by Andrei Tarkovsky 3d well