“No! I don t want to speak of that! But I m going to. I want you to hear. I want you to know what s in store for you. There will be days when you ll look at your hands and you ll want to take something and smash every bone in them, because they ll be taunting you with what they could do, if you found a chance for them to do it, and you can t find that chance, and you can t bear your living body because it has failed those hands somewhere. There will be days when a bus driver will snap at you as you enter a bus, and he ll be only asking for a dime, but that won t be what you hear; you ll hear that you re nothing, that he s laughing at you, that it s written on your forehead, that thing they hate you for. There will be days when you ll stand in the corner of a hall and listen to a creature on a platform talking about buildings, about the work you love, and the things he ll say will make you wait for somebody to rise and crack him open between two thumbnails; and then you ll hear people applauding him, and you ll want to scream, because you won t know whether they re real or you are, whether you re in a room full of gored skulls, or whether someone has just emptied your own head, and you ll say nothing, because the sounds you could make – they re not a language in that room any longer; but you d want to speak, you won t anyway, because you ll be brushed aside, you who have nothing to tell them about buildings! Is that what you want?”

“No! I don t want to speak of that! But I m going to. I want you to hear. I want you to know what s in store for you. There will be days when you ll look at your hands and you ll want to take something and smash every bone in them, because they ll be taunting you with what they could do, if you found a chance for them to do it, and you can t find that chance, and you can t bear your living body because it has failed those hands somewhere. There will be days when a bus driver will snap at you as you enter a bus, and he ll be only asking for a dime, but that won t be what you hear; you ll hear that you re nothing, that he s laughing at you, that it s written on your forehead, that thing they hate you for. There will be days when you ll stand in the corner of a hall and listen to a creature on a platform talking about buildings, about the work you love, and the things he ll say will make you wait for somebody to rise and crack him open between two thumbnails; and then you ll hear people applauding him, and you ll want to scream, because you won t know whether they re real or you are, whether you re in a room full of gored skulls, or whether someone has just emptied your own head, and you ll say nothing, because the sounds you could make – they re not a language in that room any longer; but you d want to speak, you won t anyway, because you ll be brushed aside, you who have nothing to tell them about buildings! Is that what you want?” – Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead