It might well be that we write for when we are dead. Like we swim when we are alive.
It is rumoured that the Corona virus has come for men. Perhaps to have it out once and for all: the original sinners are still wasting their time on coffee and cigarettes.
Democritus adverted, it would be tricky to discern the real properties of anything. The true meaning of why we love and cry and die could, for a simple few, add up in the crossing of the horizontal with the vertical (a hazy stretch of faith as surveyed from the aerial axis mundi of your spine).
We write for guys (brails).
Picture from Wikipedia: The leechlines are clearly visible running inwards and upwards from the edges of the sail. The buntlines up the front of the sail can be seen too, but their run to the blocks on the shrouds is obscured because the sail is set on a lifting yard.
Also of Interest: masts/towers