He sat in her New York apartment, and she looked at him and said, "You are in mourning." Not the kind where the sun rises and your eyes flutter open. The split open kind.
And she told him that his pysche has put its foot down, on a life he cannot live.
And she told him, to keep writing. So, he tries to keep the faucet on, letting the words pour out. He can't always do it. Often, in between the drops, he opens his mouth but he can't speak.