They've gone back in again. Eluded me. Those 26 letters. More or less every evening, we vex each other: I want to rope them up into words, they prefer to twist and turn in my hands, it's like holding live eels. If they could only have the contentment of well-fed cats, who scarcely move. I can sense the words I want to write, I can't shape them, though. Frustrating