She’ll try to write books. She starts them but never finishes them, even if she’s written the ending. Because she doesn’t know the full story. She can’t answer all the questions. It’s like the more she writes, she’s answering more about herself but asking more about the world. You’ll watch her as she sits and stares at her screen. It looks like she’s pressing the backspace key more than any others. She’s undoing before she even begins. It’s bizarre to see because she still calls it ‘creating’ something. She makes a cup of tea and takes a few sips, enough to warm a heart that has been frozen seven times over. But then she forgets it and four fifths of the cup goes lukewarm in the hour that she sits in the same position, give or take a few wrist cracks. But she still says she loves tea. And you wonder if her leaving things to cool off is her way of showing love. You wonder that as you sit in the corner watching her write.