You can turn your tongue inside out seven times, you’ll still have no voice. You can choose jet black ink, the page will still be white. You can sharpen the stylet as much as you like, the signs of disease will remain invisible. You can choose colours and brushes with infinite care, the canvas will forever remain blank. Then, contradicting all you imagine, the word comes to you and it is once more possible to write. Leaves appear at the branches’ ends, flowers open their corollas, fruit begins to form, nursing its seed to maturity. The apple tree drops its apples, and the writing case supplies the fertile pen with a steady supply of cartridges.