part 33

fiction. in short, fact follows fiction. She looks outside, is waiting, she looks at her cell, she counts the pages, she ponders when her sickness will decrease and lighten its grip on her. She has not been back home since March 13, and it is April 8th, now.

--it is now April 10, she was sick for a day and did not write at all, a disruption in her routine, so she went straight back to picking up her pen and putting words on paper, even though she is still kind of shaken and disoriented from two days, or better, nights of fever, which was not good at all, which makes her feel weak, strengthless, full of resentment about the discrepancy of her own strength and the vitality of the blossoming spring, the fledgling heat, the brightness, the sun, her coffeeshop here at the corner of 23rd and 8th is her sanctum, it is still the same, she made it her home, this one and all the other coffee places, tea places, where she writes her journalentries and ponders, where journal ends 18 6 and where literature starts, given that anything written reflects the penwomanship of the author, she ponders, ponders, ponders away. She is now at a point where she expects herself to put down 40 pages straight, which is quite a strong regimen, which might be too much, counterproductive, that kind of thing, she starts tweaking parts of the page, does not fully cover it with her words. She is still reeling from her cold and feels restless, wondering, if she should just stop, there are so many more days left to write, so many more days, years, minutes, besides, this paper is so very nonconducive to writing, the lines are not pronounced, so it is like writing on non-lined paper, which makes the ideas