And what of those questions regarding purpose, immortality, and meaning—questions the soul loves to flee toward in moments of duress? What of the books and volumes peering out from the library, protesting their confinement on the shelves and asking if you will ever read them before you finally depart this world? What of the screenplays and stories trapped in computer folders, awaiting a time known only to God? What of the daily compulsion to write something new—something that satisfies you, appeals to your readers, and sustains you in the only line of work available to you? And even if you have matured enough to move past the grand existential questions that consumed generations before us, can you truly ignore the accusations of treason and apostasy that inevitably arise whenever you write something that doesn't suit certain tastes? And since God has granted you the grace to move beyond nostalgia and bravely confront the unpleasantness of the present, how can you overcome the fear of the future as it tightens its grip on your chest every single night?