He asked her to write something, something for him.
She wants to, but the words choke in her throat like ink in a pen which has been too long unused and the consonants sound harsh and vile and the vowels fly away like light clouds over a seascape.
Her head is empty of all words and wisdom and her heart is jumble sale full of clutter and confusion; every word she strings bead like on this necklace of thoughts jars her soul because it is wrong, it cannot express, it does not explain, it is not enough.
He asked her to write something. And she will.
But first she must try to decipher and translate the inscrutable language of the mesmerising spheres of brown; if she does not fully understand what it is that has been said, how can she ever respond?
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