On the blank page, the pen begins to write itself, calling to God as an unbeliever.  It is not me that writes, but the hand. Surely, not even the hand, but a penmanship compels my hand to write, as upon blind lines in the dark.

This mad thought terrifies me. That the same blind force which moves my pen may be that divine hand which writes upon the book of eternity. That penmanship of divine names which inscribes such miraculous beauty in the world  —  from my hand issues forth doggerel and dust.  But not entirely. My madness also intuits the joke. That my feeble pen touches that Pen, as through a black veil.

Let me be simple as a stone, dumb, mute.  Let me be blind. Let me grope my way upon the earth.  Where shall I feel for the sure, roundabout path?  

Let this writing be braille. 

Verily it is said, “we created you in the highest of stature and drove you into the lowest of the low.”