My dear,

You know what I tell myself everytime I write?

Faster, faster, until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death.

I sit on my chair, and force myself to write… and keep writing, until I get to that point where it’s no longer the fear of mortage payments that’s driving me, ’till it’s no longer the thoughts of long days with empty stomachs forcing my fingers to glide over that keyboard – but instead, the thrill of writing one letter after the other, one word after the next, one sentence after the former… until I write for writing in itself.

It’s comparable to riding down a one way dead-end steep highway on a bike with no brakes. At first all you can think about is your death in the more than likely head-busting collision that’s about to happen. But pretty soon you realize that the road is infinitely long and infinitely steep – all you’re doing is gaining speed, and there’s no end in sight. Heck, you can probably ride this thing now with no arms.

And that’s when the fun starts.

Falsely yours,
Hunter Stockton Thompson