I do not yet know how to write what I must.
This sentence occurs to her as a plausible place to begin. In fact, the longer she considers the matter—and, of course, she does consider the matter for some length of time—this sentence seems to her to be the only place to begin. She who spends her days almost exclusively in the company of those without speech. She who is unable to complete one thought from beginning to end and for whom reflective activity has become a form of nostalgia. She to whom Derrida finally makes sense. And, as she considers the matter further, this sentence seems, at the very least, to be simply a place to begin. It is her place to begin. It is this sentence that will mark her beginning.
I do not yet know how to write what I must.
And, then:
There are fears I dare not speak nor write.
