A page, a pen. Am I too worthless to use them?
Then why does my hand tremble when I pick up a quill,
A tool which so many use without pain or loss or grief.
Milton, Shakespeare, what was in them?
That flow of thought which even death could not stem.
Now... how can I write with the same tools of the trade,
With bloodied hands which cannot write a passable essay?
Nothing to say from my swollen lips but spill a sad laugh.
I wish to write the words, the mind, the soul.
I can't write except this filth.
The ink won't flow. The paper burns.
Someone is calling now. Why should I answer?

Hello again. I suppose I went for an ultra long break. Been quite busy lately since its a new environment and the examinations are now over! (till next term...) Now I have to finish up some projects and try to fit my self learning french studies into my routine which now has knitting and slacking in it. Talk about bad influence.

Things are picking up quite well. I have finally decided on a plot and now I need to put it on paper. I really miss the Roald Dahl side of me, perhaps its time to read the BFG or Mathilda again. Once the holidays start again in June I'm going to meet up with my old pals. My pen-pal is coming to visit her relatives and hopefully me. She's an American educated Chinese with a grasp of Cantonese better than me. She crochets and her mother knits. My knitting started when they came two years ago I think but I left the needles in the cupboard until this year.

Could someone help me with the French nasal sounds? I really need help the book doesn't really make sense. Do you pronounce the "n" or not? Like in oncle and encore. I'll figure it out soon I suppose. Only got this book four days ago or so. Wish me luck!