They’re so precious just sitting there aren’t they? Just cuddled up there in words and scribbles and countless beer soaked conversations? Just look at them. They all need to die. All of them there, crying out for you. They need to be put out to pasture or laid to rest. Probably more like buried alive. All our ideas are killing us. We are ideas people. We sweat ideas. They drip off the end of your nose as they infect your head with ideas of grandeur and riches and respect. They just won’t sleep. So we have to kill them. Killing Darlings are projects I’m glad I never really made but wrote out instead to lay them to rest.