what is it about the human condition that makes us want to write it all down and label it and define the labels and use so many words to fill in the blanks that didn't even exist before there were pens and circle the point with flowery language and grassy language and arid, barren deserts of language and scream and sing and whisper and howl and sign and toast and mumble and stammer and stutter and misinterpret and misinform and miss the point and lie and exclude the truth and tell the truth and be too honest and start diaries and take notes and log journals and write songs and plays and tickets and receipts and bills and checks and birthday cards and obituaries and articles and columns and advertisements and letters of resignation and cover letters and dear john letters and varsity letters and applications and essays and poems and stories and screenplays and tattoos, but won't allow us to understand each other?

if you haven't yet, go read A Confederate General From Big Sur by Richard Brautigan