Why waste my time on words that fill these blank pages, that no eye but mine will read. Why waste my time on dialogue that spatters across the screen stuttering and starting until it flows like waves to the sea when no ear but mine will ever hear. Why waste my time moulding these characters that dance, or slump, or slouch, or stomp, or race, or riot, or drag their feet across the story I outline for them, when nobody else will meet them. Why waste my time on this thing that compels and drives, this creature inside me that claws at my heart to get free, purring rhythm and diction even as it spits syllables and punctuation that doesn’t quite fit. Why waste my time when the sun shines and the weeds grow and the dust settles and the washing up totters on its pedestal. Why waste time lost in stories that exist only in the tips of my fingers as they stumble about the keyboard. Why waste time that could be better spent on anything but this, this relentless longing to free the thoughts that clamour in my brain and pulse through my veins and throb down my arm to be free. Why waste time with people who are made only of clumsy adjectives and worn out cliché. Why waste my time, only concerned with what is within, when there is life out there? It is the sweetest addiction I know.