slightly fictionalized story "why do you write?" asks the old bum to me in the darkened corner of little blueshop me with pen and book scribbling oblivious to jumping jazz playing at far end "why do you write?" to which i must reply, "who am i to deny the sizzling synapses, firing continually, sending pretty words from mind to 3 pound grey matter to arm to pen to paper.  i get these thoughts for a reason, and the best and easiest way to record them for others is to write." and he walks away, mumbling something about not understanding me and needing another beer