How can I write if I look at my hands and they seem to me formless lumps? I can barely pick up the spoon to taste a mouthful of soup. The other day a young woman, a work colleague, tried to assist me, but I refused her help. That my hands have lost something of their human form is daily humiliation enough. I don’t want her compassionate eyes on me. This was what happened, Salvador. You summoned me and I came back to life.