And now I pay every month to preserve my thoughts in a digital tomb that could be wiped from human existence at the click of a mouse. I do this because, even though most of that writing will never see the light of another monitor besides my own, I have poured my soul into the cursor so it can scratch my pain, joy, success, and failure across a blank white imitation of a page. It holds the heartfelt words that would vomit past my lips into a jumbled mess of unrecognizable content, missing the meaning altogether.