Often, in the early morning hours, I would find him still awake, with eyes swollen from insomnia, looking at me with sadness as if to say: 'Nothing again.' A full ten years passed without him managing to write the slightest thing, except for his name and a few - counted on his fingers - otherwise inspired and grandiose titles, such as: 'Another day passed without me writing anything' or 'I dreamed of blank pages.'