Stephen King on writing; “Look- here’s a table covered with red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. […] On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8. […] The most interesting thing here isn’t even the carrot-munching rabbit in the cage, but the number on its back. Not a six, not a four, not nineteen-point-five. It’s an eight. This is what we’re looking at, and we all see it. I didn’t tell you. You didn’t ask me. I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We’re not even in the same year together, let alone the same room… except we are together. We are close. We’re having a meeting of the minds. […] We’ve engaged in an act of telepathy. No mythy-mountain shit; real telepathy.”

Is human endeavor really just "neurons" and "reward pathways", skinner boxes nonsense? A writer writes, hoping his writings reaches the mind of others. A painter paints, hoping their paintings communicate a thousand words from his spirit's depths. I think the act of making effort is more than mastery, it is a commune with oneself, and others.