From time to time I wrapped myself in threadbare blankets and tried to write something into the quarto-sized notebook I'd purchased to contain my new novel, but the results were as indecipherable as a blind man's version of Cyrillic, scratched in blue pen on feint-lined pages. I tried to find the long-lost rhythm of storytelling but it was completely out of me, if I'd ever even had it. My only company through this illness was desire, long suppressed and denied.
From Candle Life by Venero Armanno, p40
