“I am a philosopher; I do philosophy”—says the builder of imaginary castles, just as the one who plays at creating, arranging, and tampering with words says: “I am a writer; I do literature.” And although both, perhaps, feel justified by the status their craft confers upon them, the truth is that nothing they produce has any existential meaning. Pointing this out seems silly, but the years pass and life presses for a true justification. The philosopher, the writer, cannot find it in the past, having dedicated it to external motivations, detached from themselves. So they repent; perhaps still with time to redeem it, but having already left behind the harmful influence and example.