They don’t know that I can spend an entire day, just me in a small room with a notebook and a pen. But what is that worth? What is an idea worth? What is a thought worth?

It certainly doesn’t seem to be worth writer’s cramp in my hand. And then I wonder, after all the time I can sit in a quiet room writing thoughts down, will there come a time that I don’t have anything to write, that I have nothing to express?

All those daydreams of a brighter future, and even the nightmares, future, past, present, what place do they hold if I don’t write them down? Are we writing for the sake of writing? I’d have to say so.

I must say there is something magical about human thought transcribed, free from the distraction of any tools. A true stream of consciousness. And it has a certain wonder to which nothing can compare.