“Hey, Lou, look what I found.  We got another one of them… ah whatyacallits… writers.  What, ya think he’s worth something?”
“No way Harry, he’s a dime a dozen, even a lawyer can fancy himself a writer…  All of these auteurs are the same—by the way Lou, that’s French for artist.  One week out of college without a day of work in their life, they’ll be trying to peddle their pathetic little street painting or whatever.  Only they’ll be finding they ain’t selling too good, on accounts as the only street they goes to sells these street paintings is the one that their street is on.”
“Then what Lou, what do they do then, Lou, when they don’t sell their street painting, then what do they do?”
“Then they get a job at blockbuster.  And after that, well…  It’s very random, but as years go by it gets more and more likely to go somewheres close to this single eventuality.”
“What’s that Lou?  Huh?  What is it Lou, answer me Lou, I’m dyin’ here, you got to tell me Lou…”
“Harry, will ya shut up for a second.  Alright.  Death.  There.  You can think beyond that, but it will always be death.”
“Lou that is very profound.”
“Profunct even.”