Finally in the safety of my own room, where the roving tourists of mourners are not allowed to venture, I can place the nib of my Quill into the waiting black ink upon my desk, the desk Papa made for me then carved his initials on the bottom left corner as an artist signs a canvas. If I do not write down these things I will surely go mad. There is much to say.
Although Papa rarely wrote words upon a page, he has always encouraged me to do so. He says I have a talent for such things, for placing thoughts into words and packaging them safely on the empty page as if the page were a box for keepsakes.
Excerpt from a long ago draft.