The other children are jealous of my talent. They may not show it with their teasing and taunting, but they are, I know. At the very least they should be. Or rather they would be, if they recognised what I can do. For I can do nothing. Not just for hours or days, but whole months can stretch by where the sum of my achievements is zero. Others my age will have families by now, their children crawling about their feet. I search this dictionary for every word. A sculptor will start with a block of stone. Then remove the unwanted, to leave behind his vision. So it is with me, considering the whole dictionary for each word, discarding those that I deem unsuitable, until left with the one most perfectly full of meaning, to be scribed here in my crooked hand. Repeated, for every word. The longest journeys in my life now seem to me to have taken no more than the blink of an eye. And as the pages of my dictionary tear and fall away, so holes appear in my memory. And when I look back, I find that I have achieved less than even I thought possible. I am not envious of my fellow patients as they are visited by their grand children. Indeed, they should all be jealous of me. For I can do what no other can do. I can do nothing.