For whom am I writing this? For myself? I think not. I have no picture of myself reading it over at a later time, later time having become problematical. For some stranger, in the future, after I'm dead? I hve no such ambition, or no such hope.
Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for, when they scrawl their names in the snow.
I'm not as swift as I was. My fingers are stiff and clumsy, the pen wavers and rables, it takes me a long time to form the words. And yet I persist, hunched over as if sewing by moonlight.