No one loves the poor except their mothers.

Nihilistic and absurd questions overwhelm me: For whom do I write? What is the point of writing repeatedly for years, and writing books? What would happen to the world if I fell ill with a malignant disease, or died by drowning, or burning, or by oppression... by a bullet, or the blade of a knife, or by a heart attack from the siege of foolishness, triviality, and absurdity? Would the sun change its course and rise from the west, if I deviated, or disbelieved, or committed suicide? Nothingn...