Much is said by little black marks with their scratching lines and screaming curves, heartless, loud and cold. I hate them for their power and for their apathy about the outcome of their screaming. The casual life of obscene words and careless thoughts on a page now yellowing with age.
I became angry with myself for allowing that note I found in the National Archives to hurt me. I knew who had written it, and my hands, which always reach and yearn for the familiar feel and touch of a pencil, curled into fists so tight that my knuckles popped.
