It is so good that it is a part of me. I have written a story that is so good I am a part of it. This is a common mania. And now I cannot act. The story does not act, because it is not alive. When I read it, it is alive. But if I read it too often it will become dead. When I am not reading, the story does nothing, unless I think of it, but I don’t want to spoil the imagery by thinking of it too often. I am not dead. My story is not dead. I cannot think. I have put everything I had into three sheets of paper. And now I am nothing for a while.