At the Cosmonaut Hotel in Baikonur, we scribble on our dormitory room doors shortly before leaving for the launch complex—with an indelible marker, no less. Doing this as a kid would have resulted in a fierce scolding. I know I have had such a talking to, and in turn have talked to my sons.
Writing on the wall has been happening since humans lived in caves, and is ingrained into the very fabric of our being. So writing on our dormitory door just comes naturally. Should I trace the outline of my hand? Should I draw a mastodon? Maybe a rocket.
Perhaps some future anthropologist, excavating ruins from this forgotten civilization, will happen across these scratches and remark how primitive these times were—humans sacrificed to the space gods by blasting them off in rockets.