"30 November [1914]. I can't write anymore. I've come up against the last boundary, before which I shall in all likelihood again sit down for years, and then in all likelihood begin another story all over again that will again remain unfinished. This fate pursues me. And I have become cold again, and insensible; nothing is left but a senile love for unbroken calm."--Franz Kafka, Diaries

***

CatLobsang hears the tapping of my hands on the keys and comes to engage--he will lie on the keyboard, or the mouse. If I pick up a pen he will lie on the notebook or rest his chin heavily on my writing hand as though purposely to stop me, calm me. As though my writing were a symptom he must treat.

Perhaps this is so.

Today is quite beautiful. Big puffy clouds scud about in the wind, which is high and blustery. The sunbeam is creeping into the skylight and should be full on my face in about 7 minutes.

Cat's head on my wrist.