Perhaps the reason we writers, write novellas and poems is that it is an attempt at leaving something eternal on a planet that takes 365 days to orbit around the sun, and only 32 seconds to destroy; proof of an existence, that is relayed by Times New Roman font letter words on 400 pages. Perhaps it's like a guilty sinner sitting in the dark confessional room whispering seven Hail Mary's in vain, for us, we confess the workings of our minds; no matter how dark they might be. Or maybe, maybe it is an art, writing, but rather than an art in the sense of: spending grande amounts of money to spend 1,460 days sitting in a lecture hall listening to a professor explaining to the class the solitary meaning behind every single word... Maybe it is an art in the sense that rather than being chosen as a form of our expression, our taste for cheap cigarettes after a fatal heart break, or our outrage at government provoked War, it chooses us: it grabs hold of us and shows us how to express, writing, the art of learning how to be human. 

And maybe perhaps it's simply, just a hell of a past time.