I smell gasoline. It's just smells volatile, you know? Like heat, not yet exploded into flame. Like something you've turned your back on, that is falling, but you haven't heard it because it hasn't hit the ground. Smells like potential. People think they like the smell of gasoline. Don't know what they like about it. Smells sweet, maybe. They're not the kind to light fires, though. You have to love flame for the way it eats, the way it grows, the way the light gets bigger, faster, and hotter, no matter what you do. I don't set fires. I just sit in my chair, and I notice things. The way people pass by, the way they speak without caring who hears them. Sounds stupid. Like ignorance, like insolence, like inelegance. Like whatever you try to do is failing, no matter what you do, but it's other people, all around you. Not that I care. And so I just notice them. Still smells like gasoline. I wonder where it's coming from.
"For centuries the situation in literature was such that a small number of writers faced many thousands of times that number of readers. Then, towards the end of the last century, there came a change. As the press grew in volume, making ever-increasing numbers of new political, religious, scientific, professional and local organs available to its readership, larger and larger sections of that readership (gradually at first) turned into writers. It began with the daily newspapers opening their 'correspondence columns' to such people, and it has now reached a point where few Europeans involved in the labour process could fail, basically, to find some opportunity or other to publish an experience at work, a complaint, a piece of reporting or something similar. The distinction between writer and readership is thus in the process of losing its fundamental character. That distinction is becoming a functional one, assuming a different form from one case to to the next. "
--Walter Benjamin, The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction