So what is writing? The effort of puny man to stave off personal extinction.
To somehow extend the lifetime of the unique self which sees this day, this moment,
just the way the sun shines on this little girl,
the smell of the eucalyptus,
that thought which only you could think.
The horror of leaving this earth without making a black mark against the white paper of human memory.
The trace that a conscious creature had been here.
who had never been here before
who will never be here again.
-Janet Fitch, Letters in the Mail from The Rumpus