And so we beat on, books against the critics, borne back ceaslessly into rewrites. - F. Scott Fitzgerald

There was one of his lonelinesses coming, one of those times when he walked the streets or sat, aimless and depressed, biting a pencil at his desk. It was a self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no outlet, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully - assuaged only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all efforts and attainments were equally valueless.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past..

The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day's last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.