I've sat here and stared at this blank page for nigh an hour now. I had to recork my inkwell for fear it would run dry while I lingered, tortured and indecisive, the pale ivory expanse of parchment mocking me... encouraging me?...ah, who knows.
Now, if only my hands would stop shaking, I might be able to record something.
I've sat another twenty minutes at least. I can't write about him. Not yet. Coward that I am.



