Writing is a vice. Vices are things you fall back on under stress, that feel like candy, that sometimes ache while you enjoy them. Vices are small depravities, the things which break apart the bricks of society. Vices are the voices of chaos in the dark, tempting us to question order.
And why should’t we question order? Order without reason is useless rigidity. What is a form without function?
Vices are vital. They are little destructions, little tearings-down. Without them, how can we make things anew? How can we adapt and change?
I’ll keep them, my vices. The occasional cigar. The lust and longing. But most of all, the writing. What better way to break it all apart?