The urge to write stems from an inherent sense of not being complete. From having something that hasn’t been expressed. So line after line, you strive for that kind of communication with whoever takes the time to read your lines. And every finished piece brings you a little bit closer, but you’re never quite there.
There’s an odd sort of beauty in that kind of incomplete mosaic your body of work produces. And that ends up making it alright in the end.