Understanding the brutal necessity of lack.
Writing is an invention of the spirit. I flatly refuse to believe it has anything to do with a base need to communicate. As an invention of the spirit, it has a purpose to serve which transcends logistical concerns. It resides in the ether. In the service of memory. Why else do we have this perennial procession of books, songs, poems, all saying the same thing, over and over? It seems rather a poor pylon of communication in its purest essence. A combination of symbols, pictures, and patterns seem infinitely more capable in that regard. Write because it is a pointless thing to do. Pointless in the same way that falling in love is pointless.