Somewhere out there there's someone who has made a hobby out of being the greatest troll to ever troll macrumors, and s/he has no one to brag about this to.

There's something about true poetic greatness that always confers loneliness, a separation from the crowd. The bard does not wander from meadhall to meadhall because the fires are warm and the women are inviting; the bard is condemned to wander by the cursed blessing of the gods.