I broke my pen after scribbling his death sentence. Black ink stained my fingers, my skirt, my reading glass and the white paper that soaked the dark liquid like a gluttonous whore. I screamed and threw away the pen in fear, and out it went through my window. I picked a blotting paper that was lying close by, beneath my table; as if it was waiting for the day it would hear its calling. It rose to the occasion, and somehow managed to save not the whole ‘sentence’ but just a word, the name of the guilty. I felt like burning it to its end. I wished to bury it like it never existed. I thought I would cut it into a thousand pieces like the dead leaves of fall but I ended up crying for a long time holding it close to me. I loved it, I enveloved it.