How many geniuses—scientists, artists, and poets, who’ve wandered the Earth making beautiful connections, novel insights, and brilliant illuminations–have been lost to time because they simply did not write?

…Or draw, or chisel?

What account do we have of the first sunset landscape witnessed by our ancient ancestors? What about the discovery of creating fire… Or of the thoughts men and women who had the same propensity for insight as Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, or Austen, who would have, but for want of dedication of time or resources, at least have left us with a journal?

Or really, of any of us, who, when reflecting on the day are struck by a beautiful ray of connectedness with our surroundings, yet decide to waive our chance to write and rather rue on about the daily stresses?

What is art but a manifestation of beautiful thoughts? And science but a reproduction of novel connections? And writing but art and science inscribed on Earth in the vernacular of the readership?