Too fast

I do hate how the Hands take themselves away while I am still shaping a sentence. Last sevenday, I was still considering what to say about my father’s illness and my place as nurse - when I was whisked away, back to my own bed. I must find some way to make the Hands stay until I am done with what I must say.
Who are you, out there? For whom do I write these things? I wish I could see you, oh owner of these aging Hands. Who else reads these things I write? I wish that I could know.

And yet, if I did know, would I be able to speak so freely about what is so close, so private, to my heart?

Hieram, the Duke of Aneth’s stupid son, has