One night I had a dream: I was hunched over a pile of papers, writing, writing, writing... I was gasping as if I were climbing a mountain; I struggled to save, to be saved, I fought with the words, I battled to tame them, I felt them bouncing around me wild, resisting like mares.
Suddenly, as I was hunched, I felt a gaze piercing through the key of my head. I raised my eyes in fright and saw: In front of me stood a dwarf, with black beards down to the ground, slowly shaking his heavy head with contempt and looking at me. Terrified, I bowed my neck back to the yoke and continued to write.
But the gaze still pierced relentlessly through my crown. I slowly lifted my eyes again, trembling, and saw the dwarf still shaking his head with sadness and scorn. And suddenly, for the first time in my life, disgust rose in my guts, a frustration for these papers, the books and the inks where I was losing myself, for my unholy struggle to confine my soul within molds of beauty.
