Who is it who touches them - all these writers with their many eyes at the end of long stalks, moving through buildings, people, and time itself? We look through their pieces, negotiate turns and clamber up and down the walls they erect every time there is a half blank page - for after this page they are somewhere we did not consider, an argument that will come back to us only after long, perhaps dangerous treks. This is why I believe in muses.