My deadline was approaching. Time was short, and writing is hard. I gambled and spilled some ink on the page. I watched as the ink rolled, ran, twisted, curled, and splotched before evening out into something intelligible as words began to form. What I read there was full of comedy and tragedy, as hilarious as it was heart-breaking.
Excited, I rushed across the house and showed the page to my roommate. He looked it over, made a face, and handed it back. It made no sense to him.
In disbelief, I handed it back to him. I insisted he read it again, certain he only needed to try a little harder to grasp the meaning of it.
He simply shook his head and said, "Some stories are for an audience of one."