Sometimes it feels like there is a vise on my heart. My hand has control over the vise, but I do not have control over my hand. In my despair, I ache as it loosens, I groan as it tightens. In my agony I declare and I command, but my hand disobeys.

I asked her why I should keep writing; is there anything left for me to write that has not already been written? She said the sky has been painted thousands times, should we stop painting the sky?

The vise loosens.