Why do I sit here night after night writing to no one, about nothing, except what enters my thoughts at the moment?

I neglect my everyday life only to please the writer in me. The one I'm not truely familar with as yet.

I never knew I could be so consumed by mindless exagerations of my docile exisitance. But I am.

I can't  control the seemingly sexual gratification of pen scratching paper.

Night after night I wittness the passing of time within me as the clock ticks on by.