You are to write. Write, say me. Just write.

But where is the heat? Where is the fire?

Wait! First must come the kindling.

The kindling? Oh but it is spread about. A piece here, a splinter there.

But it has lain long in the shade, left uncovered on rainy days.

Found the dampness.

Let it see the sun. Leave it that the rays will dry it.

A little longer that they will ignite it.

At once a spark, then the flames.

Don’t let them die.

Though the flames ebb, let not the darkness find them.

Give them breath, show them light.

Say me, “Are you listening?

Can you hear me?

Will you hear me?”