Because that's what writers do. They write. It's not necessary that we be good at any of it. What is necessary is that I write.

This is the sentence that got through, the one that made it to the end of the line. why it exists? we have no clue. Just as paint slings across a canvas, words have to be pushed out of the mind and onto a paper. Or a screen. Or a brick wall.

Someone will decide what they're for later. Could be me. Probably won't be. Sure, I'll be able to provide an explanation for how they got there (some alcohol, more weed, and a grasp for some fucking discipline). But the reason they exist? Beats me.

So is the journey between those words and their meaning—is that art?

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