I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter–bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”

Stephen Crane, In the Desert

Why can’t I write anymore? This soporific daily life, this metronome of forged and formal clauses, yields a willing space for better language. But I am stricken dumb. My bones, brittle with frost, are near to splintering. When my thoughts curl towards even the faintest contours of vision, I ignore them. My silence renders me senseless and safe.