These words rest lightly on my page, but this heaviness pressing on me is perhaps the weight of all the words I have still not written. And the heaviness pressing on me is what first urged me to write.
Or the heaviness pressing on me could be the weight of all the days I have still not lived. My heaviness will urge me in a little while to get up from this table and to walk to the windows; but the same heaviness will urge me afterwards to sit down again at this table. Then, if I begin to write: I walked just now to the windows and looked across my estates… my reader will learn how little I see around me, with this heaviness pressing on me.
— Gerald Murnane, Inland
Notes from a Room 