“I can’t be soothed. I don’t want to be soothed.” I hear his agitation growing. “The hand must be here—” He presses his hand flat against the tip of his nose. “When I covered your face with the handkerchief I was trying to show you the truth of my darkness. I don’t want to lift it—I don’t want to be soothed. To take away the anguish would be to take away everything I want to put down on paper. I wouldn’t know myself without it.”
