All this pain that I carry finds its way out when I write, and I write and I write and I write and I look at the words and I see it and touch it and I see it’s no longer in me but it’s outside, it left me, I can print it out, I can take it, I can weigh it my hand, I can tear it, I can burn it. I can do things to it I couldn’t do when it was in me and I can’t stop writing because of that. It’s both painful and pleasurable like pulling out a splinter, many splinters, it hurts and then it doesn’t and then it’s out and you throw it away and you feel good. You feel damn good, life is good, and you want more of that, so you write more and more and more and you can't stop. You just can't stop. You're hooked.