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[Source](https://www.citizen.co.za/krugersdorp-news/news-headlines/2015/06/10/if-those-walls-could-talk/)</center>

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<div class="text-justify">From his youth, the need to write consumed him. He would write in the margins of his notebooks, on coffee napkins and even on the walls of public toilets. </div><P/>
<div class="text-justify">It was a miracle that he finished school and kept a job, given his mania for stealing paper to satiate his obsession.</div><P/>
<div class="text-justify">Inevitably, he ended up in a mental institution. In his bare-walled white cell, he paced frantically in the yellowish light. </div><P/>
<div class="text-justify">The doctors believed that the lack of pencil and paper would cure him, but they underestimated the voracity of his hunger for writing.</div><P/>
<div class="text-justify">One day, when they opened the door, the walls were covered with scribbles of dried blood. </div><P/>
<div class="text-justify">The patient, lying in a crimson puddle, bled to death as he scraped the last few sentences with his fingernails on the floor. Incomprehensible delusions and fragments of stories burned in his mind.</div><P/>
<div class="text-justify">He was rushed for a life-saving transfusion. As he lay unconscious, hooked up to machines, his pupils moved frantically behind his eyelids, as if he were reading or writing in his mind.</div><P/>
<div class="text-justify">The doctors assumed that the confinement had pushed him to this insane extreme. It never occurred to them that, for a true writer, words are as vital as the blood that carries them in his veins. To deny them to him is tantamount to slow agony.</div><P/>